


One More Time, With Feeling

by ghostnebula (gghostnebula)



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Awkward Sex, Awkward Sexual Situations, Bottom Eddie Kaspbrak, College, Daddy Kink, Dom/sub, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Found Family, Friends With Benefits, Idiots in Love, It's a little unhealthy ngl, Kink Exploration, Kink Negotiation, Living Together, M/M, Oblivious, POV Alternating, Practice Kissing, Recreational Drug Use, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Sexual Inexperience, Size Difference, Smoking, The Losers Live Together, Top Richie Tozier, Underage Drinking, how many times can they have sex before they realize they're in love, mostly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:53:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24060031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gghostnebula/pseuds/ghostnebula
Summary: “Do you wanna practice?” he asks, slowly, weighing each word carefully before it leaves his mouth (though perhaps not as carefully as heshould).Richie shrugs again. “It’d be nice.”Eddie stares at him for what seems to be a very, very long time -- stares at his vibrant eyes behind his crooked glasses and the faint dark patches on his cheeks and jaw where he needs to shave, his lips that he keeps wetting with his tongue, and some deep-down, too-clever part of him is aware of theopportunitypresented to him and what can be gained from it, but mostly he’s thinking,one day I might be in arelationship,and when that person wants to kiss me -- or more -- I want to be prepared.So he finally swallows down his qualms and asks, “Do you wanna practice…together?”-In which Richie and Eddie both confess to the same two things at the same time and come to one realization: if they're both gay and they both have no sexual experience, they could always just learn with each other, right?
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 146
Kudos: 435





	1. Prerequisites

**Author's Note:**

> This will slowly, slowly get more explicit with time. They're going to start with "just kissing" and end up somewhere in "figuring out our kinks together" territory.
> 
> You can talk to me on tumblr at any point: ryuutora is my main blog and ghostnebula is the It-centric blog.

* * *

It isn’t an issue until the first party of his college career -- Halloween of 1994.

In fact, it doesn’t even _occur_ to him that it’s an issue until then. 

When an, objectively, _very_ attractive young man is giving Eddie his full attention and Eddie finds that his palms are sweating, his face is flushed, shoulders trembling, and he’s just as nervous about the situation as he is drunk and uninhibited, _charmed_ and finally -- after nearly eighteen years of life -- willing to admit his lack of attraction to girls doesn’t mean a lack of attraction to _anyone._

(Maybe there are some people in _particular,_ but he hasn’t quite gotten as far as admitting _that_ yet.)

There are striking blue eyes on him and a bright, lopsided smile, and this _Lucas_ guy is dressed like a fucking sexy cowboy and also like he tried way too hard, but it’s enough to have Eddie reconsidering all his life choices and dreaming about all the mistakes he would just love to make tonight.

Except…

Except Lucas puts his hand on his thigh as he gets close to him, _too close,_ where they’re both sitting on the kitchen counter, hidden away to avoid the chaos raging in the basement. And Eddie’s sweating _more,_ nerves beginning to overtake him in ways he hasn’t felt since he was thirteen (finds himself half-wishing he had an inhaler on hand, but _that’s just water, it was always just water, it’s all in your head, Eddie)._

“I--” He grabs Lucas’s wrist and lifts it off of him, trying to conjure up some kind of apologetic look, but he’s also more than tipsy for the first time ever and his heart is shaking in his ribs, so it probably comes out as something more akin to a grimace. “I’m sorry, I have to go find my friends.”

“Oh,” Lucas says, and he does look _terribly_ disappointed, which makes Eddie feel _worse._ “Sorry if I offended you. I wasn’t sure…”

Eddie doesn’t know what the fuck possesses him to say it (well, he’s uninhibited, tongue loosened by liquor, and his mother’s influence is fading more with each passing day, so there’s _that)_ but he’s an idiot so he tells him, “No, I… I _want_ to. Just, not right now. Not tonight.” And that sounds like a promise. Does that sound like a promise? 

He’s not sure if he means it that way or not.

It’s just that, aside from the fact that he’s still got his mother’s voice screaming at him inside his head every time he does something she’d disapprove of (it’s getting better but it still influences a good chunk of his decision-making), he’s also got a tiny problem that’s all his own.

He’s never had sex before. He’s never done anything even _remotely_ sexual before. Hell, he’s never even _kissed_ anyone. 

And then someone like _Lucas_ comes along, all confidence and sex appeal and he _clearly knows what the fuck he’s doing,_ and Eddie’s abruptly reminded that he is, in fact, a _loser._ Literally. No girls kissed him in high school, because none _wanted_ to. 

(Perhaps because _he_ didn’t want any girls to kiss him, and if he’d kissed a boy instead he wouldn’t have lived to see the sunrise the next day.)

Bill is the first person he runs into when he descends the stairs into the crowded basement, and he grabs Eddie by the shoulders, eyes enormous (and a little bloodshot) and demands, “Eddie, where the huh-huh- _hell_ have you been?”

“Uh, upstairs. It’s too loud down here,” he replies dumbly, and Bill visibly sags. 

“Tell someone where you’re going next time, _please.”_

He’s about to give some sharp retort about Bill not being his _mother,_ but he’s still got enough presence of mind to think better of it. Bill isn’t trying to smother him. He’s well within his rights to mother-hen his friends at a house party. He’s just being cautious, Eddie assures himself, and he pats Bill’s hand where he’s still clinging to him. “Yeah, sorry, just needed a minute.”

Bill’s a steady presence behind him as they pick their way across the room to the corner where Bev and Richie are cheering each other through shots of _something,_ the other Losers hovering around nursing drinks (except Mike, who has graciously offered to be their designated driver). “Listen,” he says as soon as Bill is within earshot, “it’s getting late, and I’m worried about one of them getting alcohol poisoning.” He gestures towards Richie and Bev’s general bedlam. “We should head out soon.”

“I was thinking the suh-same,” Bill agrees, nodding pensively even though his eyes are drooping and he’s slurring terribly. Eddie is choosing not to comment on it because he’s pretty sure _he’s_ having the same problem.

“One for the road.” Richie all but materializes in front of him (he’s dressed up as Buddy Holly, because _of course_ he is) and presses a plastic shot glass into his hand, and Eddie’s well past an aversion to _this_ particular mistake, out of all the many and varied things that would garner his mother’s disapproval, so he nods and clinks his cup with Richie’s and throws back what he’s pretty fucking sure was just straight rubbing alcohol, but fuck it, right? You only get drunk for the first time _once._ Richie laughs and thumps him on the back as he sputters and gags, and then they’re all being shepherded up the stairs by Mike, who somehow manages not to look resentful of his predicament as someone occasionally wanders off from the group, too drunk and too stupid to cooperate.

He practically has to buckle some of them into Ben’s station wagon. He’s still smiling the whole time and Eddie really can’t stop himself from grabbing onto his shirt as he double checks that they’re all secured in their seats, and telling him what a great fucking friend he is. 

He gets a, “Thanks, Eds,” and a pat on the head in return, and Richie puffs right up beside him like an angry cat and hisses, “Hey, now, now hold on just a-- you wait just a fuckin-- that’s _my…_ my-- no, I can’t.” He shakes his head, blinking blearily. His eyes are bloodshot like Bill’s. “I can’t be mad at you, Mikey. You call him whatever you want. You have my blessing.”

“Wow, thanks, that means a lot,” Mike says as he starts the car up with the keys Ben gave him at the start of the night, knowing full-well they’d lose track of them if they weren’t in Mike’s possession. 

Richie squints at the back of his head. “I can’t tell if that was the sound of sarcasm or not.”

“The world may never know.”

Richie forces them to sing along to Abba the whole way home (as if any of them are sober enough to require any amount of _convincing)._

  
  


“I gotta tell you a secret,” Eddie whispers conspiratorially once they’re alone in their room, changing into pyjamas. Or, in Richie’s case, stripping down to his boxers, because he’s a heathen.

“Oh, a _drunk_ secret, those are the best kind. I gotta-- hold on, I gotta--” Richie grabs the glass of water that Eddie forced on him and starts chugging (Eddie made _everyone_ drink water when they got home, even Mike, in case he was starting to get dehydrated from the strain of babysitting the six of them). “I gotta sober up a little so I remember this in the morning.”

“Are you expecting to forget?”

“I dunno.” Richie shrugs, then drinks more water. “I’ve never been drunk before, but I’ve seen a lot of movies where people forget.”

Eddie considers that for a moment before grabbing his own glass. “Anyway, you gotta _promise_ not to make fun of me for this, because it’s totally stupid.”

“This is gonna be _so_ good.” He all but launches himself across the room to where Eddie is already perched on his bed, buttoned up to his chin in his matching pyjama set.

“It’s really not.”

“Well, spill! You’ve got me on the edge of my seat, here!”

Eddie rolls his eyes at him. He’s still got this pleasant buzz all through his body that makes it hard to be mad, and he’s warm all the way through, and Richie is very pretty when he smiles like that, so he’s also smiling when he finally says, “Okay, so, I had this... _problem,_ tonight.”

“Did it involve drugs? Because that’s fi--”

“No, Richie, let me finish. Geez. There was this _person”_ \--he watches Richie’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline but he barrels on before he can interrupt again-- “who I am pretty sure was flirting with me? He put his hand-- I mean!” Eddie flails pointlessly for a second before clamping both hands over Richie’s mouth even though he hasn’t said anything. He can’t tell if his face is warm because he’s blushing or because he’s just all-over warm from the vodka. _“They_ put their hand on my thigh, like really high up, while we were talking, and- and I dunno, I always thought that’s what people do when they flirt, right? So, so I like, _panicked,_ ‘cause--”

Richie covers _his_ mouth, too, and Eddie’s _definitely_ bright red, chest heaving (he’s getting worked up and he _shouldn’t,_ he knows all kinds of techniques to calm himself but he _can’t remember)._ He lets go of Richie so he can talk. “Hold on, this is a lot to process.” _Dazed_ doesn’t seem like quite the right word, but his eyes are as unfocused as they’ve been all night, and he’s still got his hand over Eddie’s mouth. He smells like the lavender hand soap Ben bought on sale last week. It’s distracting while Eddie practices his breathing techniques, inhaling and exhaling slowly through his nose, and it sure as fuck doesn’t help that Richie has _huge_ hands and Eddie spends a good chunk of his life just staring at them, so that whenever Richie actually _touches_ him it’s like his brain shuts down. “Okay.” Richie nods, tapping his chin. “Okay. Yeah, so, here’s the thing. If this is about you being uncomfortable with a man flirting with you, I’m going to have to politely request you dial back the homophobia in my presence, if you, uh… catch my drift.”

Okay, _now_ Eddie shoves his stupid hand that smells like really nice soap away. _“No!_ That’s the opposite of my problem! Ugh!” His fingers curl into his hair and he _yanks,_ flopping over onto the mattress. “I wanted to,” he finally says, much quieter. “Like, whatever it was he wanted to do. Kiss, or have suh... _sex,_ or whatever.”

“Ah,” Richie says. Then, “I’m going to have to process _this_ one, now. Give me a sec.”

Eddie does, heart racing, but he’s not expecting a negative reaction anymore because he’s _pretty fucking sure_ Richie just implied the same to him. That, or they’re both drunk as skunks (Eddie also has a sneaking suspicion Richie might be high, too) and they’re both hilariously misreading this whole thing.

“Right,” says Richie, eventually. “So, you _also_ are… um, _interested in,_ uh--”

“I’m gay,” Eddie says, staring up at the ceiling. It’s the first time he’s ever said it out loud and it’s somehow not nearly as scary as he expected. Mind you, his mother isn’t around to condemn him to hell, or wish AIDS upon him, or whatever other crazy scenario he imagined when he first started getting this idea into his head. 

“Okay.” Richie nods, borderline frantically. “Okay. Cool. Cool. Me, too. How did we not know this?”

Eddie shrugs again, watching Richie avoid eye contact. “Got me. Apparently it’s pretty fucking obvious, considering that guy just _knew,_ and Bowers and his buddies always made fun of me for it before _I_ even really knew.”

“They called _everyone_ gay.”

“I’m pretty sure they didn’t.”

“Well, fuck.” Richie finally lies down beside him, hands folded over his stomach, leg bouncing where he’s propped his heel on the bed frame. “Observant group of fucking asshole bullies, then, weren’t they?”

“Guess so.”

There’s quiet for a moment _(relative_ quiet, since Bev is blasting Bananarama across the hall and Stan and Bill are having some kind of spat in the washroom -- these walls aren’t exactly soundproof).

“So you _wanted_ to kiss him? Or have sex, whatever, it’s your body, no judgment here. You wanted to?” When he looks, Richie’s shooting him a buck-toothed, lopsided grin, blue eyes dulled by the booze and everything else in his system. He knocks their elbows together and Eddie grins back.

“I think, yeah.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Here, Eddie sighs, but he doesn’t break eye contact because he isn’t a fucking coward, and if he’s going to embarrass himself, he’ll do it while looking Richie in the eye. “I don’t know how.”

“How to what? Fuck?”

“Or kiss.” He’s definitely going red in the face again.

Richie’s nodding pensively, or maybe he’s just very subtly drifting off to sleep, lying half on his side, legs dangling off the edge of Eddie’s bed. He surprises Eddie by speaking up after a few moments, voice clear, “Ayup, I can see where your problem is.”

When Eddie sighs, it feels like he’s _deflating._ “I just, I dunno. I wish there was a way to _practice_ that kind of stuff. I don’t want my first time to be awkward, but it feels like everyone else around me already has so much experience with that kind of stuff, so I’m just doomed to be the awkward one in that situation, y’know?” He props himself on his elbow to sip at his water again. Surprisingly, this doesn’t feel as shameful as he expected, but that might have something to do with the fact that he’s telling _Richie,_ and at this point there’s hardly room for _judgment_ between them. 

(In fact, it probably wouldn’t be nearly as nerve-wracking as he thought to tell this to _any_ of the Losers, because honestly, you can only go through so many traumatic experiences together before trivial things just don’t faze you anymore.)

So what if no one wanted to kiss him before? He’s going to have to figure it out _now_ \-- now that they’re free from Derry, free to explore their sexualities, and he actually has a _shot_ at maybe forming a meaningful relationship with _someone,_ provided he can get his shit together first. Somehow. People practice kissing on, like, their hands, right? Does that even _work?_

Richie’s hand swats at his shoulder to draw his attention. “Hey. Hey, Eds?”

“Yeah?”

“Can we make this, like, a fair-trade secret-deal? One of yours for one of mine?”

Eddie eases himself back down onto the mattress, and now they’re both lying on their sides, facing each other, and he can’t stop the inebriated smile from stretching across his face. “This oughta be good.”

Richie smiles right back. “You bet your fur. ‘Cause I, also, have the exact same problem.”

He has to take a second there, his brain functioning a bit slower than usual, but then he’s letting out a little _‘oh’_ sound that’s equal parts surprised and relieved. “You’re a virgin? What the hell, Richie, you talked about having sex with _every girl_ in-- _Oh,”_ he says again. “You were… Those were lies you made up because… oh, yeah, okay.”

“Yeah, ‘cause I’m gay and I was trying to stop people from being suspicious. I was throwing them off my scent, or whatever the hell. Fantastic sleuthing skills, there, Eddie.”

Eddie tries to come up with some kind of witty retort, but all he manages is a giggle he muffles behind his sleeve, and then another, and then he’s caught up in a full-blown fit of laughter, clutching at his stomach, with Richie rolling around beside him, shaking the bed with the force of his own laughter. He’s not even sure what’s so _funny,_ except that it _is,_ and once he’s started he can’t stop. There’s an unhinged _giddiness_ that’s taken residence in his chest, or, more likely, it’s just the vodka -- just his body reminding him he hasn’t developed any kind of proper alcohol tolerance and that it doesn’t know what the fuck to do with all the sugary, boozy drinks he’s downed tonight, and that he’ll probably puke in the morning, but for now? For now he’s on cloud fucking nine, and he should probably (definitely) drink more water. 

“No, okay, hold on,” he’s saying, one hand pressed flat to Richie’s chest (he can _feel_ the reverberations of laughter through his ribs), as he tries to take deep breaths and _compose himself._ “You haven’t _kissed_ anyone, either?”

“Nope,” Richie says. He pops the ‘p’, shrugging. “Ain’t nobody evah wanted a piece a this,” he adds, in his Southern Senator Voice.

“Do you… _want_ to?”

“What? Kiss people?” Eddie nods. “Eds, _everyone_ wants to kiss people, at some point. I’m pretty sure. But my ass is in the same damn boat as yours -- I dunno what the hell I’m doing, and I’m not about to go out there and make a fool of myself trying to figure it out.”

An idea creeps into Eddie’s head then. Perhaps not a _good_ idea, but a _drunk_ idea, and all ideas sound good to a person who has consumed enough liquor in the past few hours. 

(and maybe one that, he’ll come to realize, was a little bit selfish -- a little bit for his own benefit -- but by then it will be too late)

“Do you wanna practice?” he asks, slowly, weighing each word carefully before it leaves his mouth (though perhaps not as carefully as he _should)._

Richie shrugs again. “It’d be nice.”

Eddie stares at him for what seems to be a very, very long time -- stares at his vibrant eyes behind his crooked glasses and the faint dark patches on his cheeks and jaw where he needs to shave, his lips that he keeps wetting with his tongue, and some deep-down, too-clever part of him is aware of the _opportunity_ presented to him and what can be gained from it, but mostly he’s thinking, _one day I might be in a_ **_relationship_ ** (a perplexing concept at best) _and when that person wants to kiss me -- or more -- I want to be prepared._ So he _finally_ swallows down his qualms and asks, “Do you wanna practice… _together?”_

Richie blinks muzzily at him. “How do you mean?”

And damn him, but he’s _still_ staring at Richie’s lips when he says, through the haze in his brain that’s dissipating too slowly, “I mean, you and I, we could…”

He trails off, second-guessing himself, but apparently Richie managed to follow along well enough because his mouth flies open with a near-audible _pop_ and his eyes go wide. _“Oh,”_ he says, then, “I mean, like, _yeah,_ if that’s cool with you.”

“‘Course it is. I offered, didn’t I?”

Except after the agreement has been made, neither of them moves for quite some time, and there’s a palpable tension building in the small space between them. Eddie’s arms are folded across his chest, clamped down tightly, and he’s too riddled with nerves to move. This will, after all, be his first kiss, and he’s not sure what exactly the protocol is, nor is he sure he isn’t going to fuck it up, but isn’t that… isn’t that kind of the point? That it’s okay if he fucks up, because who’s going to complain? Richie? Richie’s just as new to this as him, _that’s_ the _point,_ so it’s just fine if it doesn’t turn out great.

Richie must come to the same conclusion as him, in the same moment, because it’s like their joints unlock and they both reach out for each other at once. Richie’s hands cup his cheeks, tilting his head _just so,_ and Eddie short-circuits a little because _Richie’s fucking hands are_ ** _big,_** big in a way that’s unfairly attractive -- in a way that has Eddie admiring them on an almost daily basis, _maybe_ fantasizing about them a little. He realizes this is both a mistake and blessing, because he’s got Richie’s stupid-big hands holding his face all _gentle_ and drawing him in closer, and _oh Jesus fucking Christ,_ he wants Richie’s stupid-big hands _all over him,_ and he kind of knew that already but now he’s imagining it like it’s a real possibility and that’s probably going to be the death of him. His heart picks up its pace in his chest and then he’s sealing their lips together as his eyes drift closed.

Kissing Richie doesn’t make fireworks go off or anything, not like stories would make you expect. In fact, it’s really just a press of skin-on-skin, but it’s made exhilarating simply by virtue of the fact that it’s _Richie_ whose lips are on his. Maybe he’s drunk and bold or maybe this is how he’d act anyway, but he uncurls his hands where they’re balled into fists, pressed between their chests, and splays his fingers over Richie’s collarbone, rubbing a little (he can _blame_ it on being drunk if Richie chooses to question it, but fuck if he isn’t going to _touch_ wherever he can in ways that are more intimate than they’re accustomed to, when they’ve both _agreed_ to put themselves in a position that’s more intimate than they’re accustomed to). 

He knows kissing is supposed to involve tongue (he’s inexperienced, not completely fucking oblivious) so he tentatively licks against Richie’s lips, and just like he expected fireworks and got none, this time he expects it to be _gross,_ and doesn’t get that either. In fact, _now_ he’s kind of understanding the whole “fireworks” thing because when he’s got his tongue in Richie’s mouth _(holy shit?)_ he gets a shot of _excitement_ about the whole thing straight through his spine, and then one of his hands is reaching up to curl around the back of Richie’s neck, pressing in closer. 

It isn’t gross at _all._ Richie tastes like the cranberry drinks they’ve been mixing all night, and like the bitter sting of vodka, and his mouth and tongue are warm against Eddie’s, and Eddie’s head _spins._

Why the fuck did he not bother kissing anyone before this?

Though, he’ll give some of the elation coursing through him to a few factors outside of _just_ the kissing, like, again, the fact that it’s _Richie,_ and also that he’s definitely still drunk and this would likely feel different if he was sober.

(Also, Richie’s _hands_ dwarfing his face, too-warm and _infuriatingly attractive_ and _ugh,_ he could write _sermons_ about the way Richie’s hands feel on him any other time -- casual touches, ruffling his hair or resting on his ankle when they lounge on the couch -- but _this_ is like fucking nirvana by comparison.)

He tips his head back just enough to break the kiss, not because he _wants_ to, but because his breathing picked up alongside his heart rate and he’s having trouble just breathing through his nose. When he cracks one eye open, Richie is already looking back at him, and twin grins break out on their faces. “Well, that’s not so bad,” says Richie, playfully, _teasingly,_ and Eddie just dives right back in for more, snatching Richie’s wrist to keep his hand in place when he feels him shift, which just earns him a chuckle _right against his lips._ He can feel Richie smiling into the kiss -- _he must be fucking dreaming, there’s no way he’s making out with Richard fucking Tozier right now --_ and then a thumb is stroking over his cheekbone. Between _that_ and Richie’s tongue pushing into his mouth, he can’t help the full-body shiver that rips through him; not in a _bad_ way, just in a… well, probably in some kind of dopamine-rush kinda way. 

He doesn’t know how long they stay like that, breaking apart to breathe and then coming back together again, but he knows that at some point there’s the awkward realization that he’s getting hard, just from _this,_ so this time when he pulls away he presses his forehead to Richie’s collarbones to block his access to his mouth and says, “It’s really late. We should probably sleep,” as he’s willing away a boner. Not as if it’s anything Richie hasn’t seen before (they’ve practically got zero boundaries, at this point), but it’s a little different when it’s obvious it was _him_ that caused it. 

(As if Richie doesn’t cause _most_ of them.)

They shuffle around until they’re tucked under the blankets, and Richie, instead of getting up to turn the light off like a normal person, throws shit at the switch until he hits it, which earns them a few aggravated _thumps_ in return, from Stan and Bill’s side of the wall (Richie throws one last book in retaliation, even though the light is already off). “You’re not bad at kissing,” he assures, after they’ve been lying in silence for a few minutes. “Just so you know. You wouldn’t have been awkward, or whatever.”

“Really?” Eddie’s draped across him, listening to his heartbeat where his ear is pressed to his chest -- sure, Richie has his own bed, but when you’ve known someone since kindergarten and have had countless sleepovers and almost died fighting a sewer clown together, and you spend ninety percent of your time maintaining some kind of contact with them, it just becomes a _comfort_ thing at some point. There’s usually one empty bed in their room; it’s why they offered to share a room in the first place. He tilts his head up just enough to be able to squint at the dim outline of Richie’s face. “What’s your point of reference, here?”

Richie shrugs. Eddie feels it more than he sees it. “Just that it’s supposed to feel good.”

Heat flames across Eddie’s face and he’s very glad it’s dark enough that they can hardly see each other -- even _more_ glad that Richie’s deposited his glasses on the nightstand and (hopefully) can’t see him very well _at all,_ just especially not enough to make out the blush. “Well, if that’s the case, you’re also not bad at kissing.”

“Why, that’sh gotta be the nicest thing anyone’sh ever shaid to me, shweetheart,” says Richie’s Humphrey Bogart Voice as he wipes an imaginary tear from his eye, which sends Eddie spiralling into another hysterical giggle-fit and, in turn, earns them another couple _thumps_ on the wall from Bill and Stan, poor souls who are probably just trying to _get some goddamn sleep,_ and far be it from _them_ to prevent that. Eddie bunches up a corner of his blanket and hides his face in it to silence his laughter, but it doesn’t do much, ‘cause now Richie is laughing, too.

Stan and Bill can find a way to sleep through it. They should be used to it by now, anyway. 

“Think I could still use some practice, though, if that’s okay,” Richie says a while later, once they’ve calmed down -- just as Eddie is edging towards the precipice of sleep. 

He can’t seem to wake up all the way to be _properly_ excited by the prospect, but a smile curls at his lips as he nods and says, “Yeah, for sure. Me too,” in a sleep-addled voice, and then he’s gone.

* * *


	2. Orientation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie is a moron, and a goner, and a perv, and a whole lot of other things. A dynamic man. A man of many talents (and many Voices). A man who masturbates to the thought of his best friend, who he happens to be hopelessly in love with. Oops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things will stop being wholesome very quickly. I know that's why you're here, so consider this less of a warning and more of a reassurance. This chapter is the end of me keeping things PG.
> 
> CW:  
> -vomiting  
> -hangovers

* * *

The first thing Richie does when he wakes up is vomit.

Well, no, that’s _technically_ a lie. _First,_ he realizes that _oh fuck he’s gonna upchuck,_ then he has to use more brain power than should be necessary to remember where that little plastic trash bucket they keep in their room is located, then he has to fucking _pry_ Eddie’s too-warm body from his and tumble out from out under the covers, slamming his knee into the bedframe on the way down (hard enough to bruise -- and to make him hiss out a strained, _“Motherfucker,”_ as he rocks to his feet). He barely makes it to the bin before he’s spewing a lovely mixture of cranberry juice, alcohol, and party chips, nose burning. 

“Richie,” Eddie whines, voice rough and dry. He’s still curled up on the bed, eyes barely open as he stares at Richie across the room -- just warm, dark slits standing out against his face. Richie almost forgets how fucking _awful_ he feels when he looks up at him, at his little pout and the pinched spot between his eyebrows and the way his nose is srunched up, presumably in discomfort. Then Eddie says, in that croaking voice that makes Richie want to remind him there’s a glass of water on the nightstand beside him, “The bottom of that is cracked.”

“Aw, fuck,” Richie says, lifting it to peer at the stain spreading on the carpet beneath it, but there’s not much he can do to stop himself from vomiting again anyway. He just cups a hand under the bottom of the bucket. “Sorry,” he chokes around the retching that seizes him again, and then there’s a strange kind of peace that settles over his body that tells him _it’s over for now._

For now.

“Richie?” Eddie says again. He still hasn’t budged from his position, bundled up under the blankets, but his eyes have closed. That little crease remains between his eyebrows.

“Hm?” 

“I think I’m gonna puke, too.”

Richie holds the bucket out towards him like a life preserver.

  
  


It isn’t that anyone particularly _resents_ Mike for being the only one of them who isn’t hungover. After all, _he_ didn’t get to experience the strangely untethered joy of being absolutely fucking hammered at a frat party and being filled to the brim with unwarranted confidence (and booze), so it’s only fair that it’s _their_ turn to suffer.

It’s just that he’s got all the lights on in the kitchen, and he’s listening to music _just_ loud enough to aggravate the pounding in their skulls, and whatever he’s cooking smells _just_ greasy enough to make Richie’s stomach turn again. 

“Oh my god,” Bill whispers, cradling his head in his hands, elbows propped on the table (Ben already told him that was impolite but there was no conviction behind it), eyes squeezed shut like he can make it all stop if he can’t see anything. “Why the fuck did we do that?”

“For shits and gigs,” Richie says automatically, a knee-jerk response, as he rests his hands over his stomach (as if that will do anything to calm it).

Bev walks in and immediately walks back out, looking drawn at best, throwing, “I’m going back to fucking bed, screw this,” over her shoulder. 

“You want breakfast?” Mike calls after her.

“Mike, we love you, so much, we _really_ do, but none of us wants breakfast right now.” Stan is clearly aiming to be as gentle as possible with that statement but he misses it by about six fucking miles, courtesy of the splitting headache he’s probably battling that’s making everything he says come out more bitchy than usual, and the smile drops from Mike’s face.

“Okay,” he says, gaze travelling over the five people hunched in various states of _craving death_ around their kitchen table. He flicks off the burners. “Okay, new plan.”

He distributes a “breakfast” of water, painkillers, antiemetics, and coffee or tea (for those who want it) to everyone, turns off all the lights in the house, closes all the blinds, and banishes them all back to bed to wait for a turn in the shower. 

Not one of them complains. 

Richie collapses in his bed and he’s asleep in an instant. There’s a lingering smell of vomit still permeating the room, but he can’t bring himself to care. Between the two of them, he and Eddie had dumped and rinsed their trash bin, scrubbed the spot on the carpet until it was as clean as it was going to get, and propped open the window, all before going downstairs to see what the hell everyone else was up to (the answer had been “nursing equally-potent hangovers and a healthy amount of regret”). This is as clean as the room is going to get.

He’s shaken awake some time later, Eddie standing over him looking less like death, hair damp, a towel around his waist, and he’s about to make some sort of wisecrack, as is his modus operandi (probably shooting him finger guns and telling him, “Lookin’ good, Eds,” which always gets him blushing) but Eddie jerks a thumb over his shoulder before he can find his voice.

“Go shower and brush your teeth. You stink. Mike will reheat some eggs for you if you’re hungry. And if you ask nicely.”

“I always ask nicely.” Richie scrubs away the crusty feeling around his eyes and hauls himself up to sit on the edge of the bed. Bright yellow sunshine is pouring in through the window, but he’s never had any misgivings about sleeping the day away, and he’s not about to start.

“No,” Eddie says, crouching down to dig through his dresser for clean clothes, “you always ask in a dumb accent and forget to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’”

“Apologies, old chap. I’ll be sure to use my manners this time, won’t I, wot-wot? Manners maketh man, that’s how the old saying goes, innit?” he squawks as Toodles the English Butler before he can even _think_ of stopping himself, and a laugh bubbles up out of Eddie easy and bright.

“They do, actually. Now, _please_ go shower. _Thank you.”_

“Right away, guv’nor!” Richie half-salutes and drags his ass to the washroom to scrub away all the grime from last night. He brushes his teeth in the shower for the sake of efficiency, which Eddie would tell him is _so fucking gross_ if he was in here with him, which is _not_ a smart thing to imagine.

Except this time, as soon as he thinks about Eddie sharing the shower with him, he remembers that thing that _actually fucking happened_ last night, and he gasps, choking on a glob of mint toothpaste. 

Not that he has a single fucking issue with _that_ chain of events, no sir, no _way._ In fact, that kind of played out like one of his very own wet dreams, but for probably the first time ever didn’t end with either Eddie’s legs spread under him, or the alarm clock going off by his head. “Oh, Jesus,” he breathes, spitting toothpaste into the water swirling around his feet on its way down the drain. “Oh my god.”

Did he actually fucking do that? It’s so vivid.

And he’d asked if they could it _more_ and Eddie had _agreed,_ oh god, holy _fuck--_

It isn’t his fault that he starts to get hard just _thinking about it;_ that incident alone is probably enough to keep his spank bank stocked for the entire rest of his life, which is pretty sad considering how _tame_ it really was. 

Then again, now he doesn’t have to imagine what it would feel like to put his goddamn _tongue_ in Eddie’s goddamn _mouth_ anymore, or how it would feel to just _hold him in place_ and lick into his mouth like that. “Shit,” he half-whispers, half-groans when he realizes he is popping a fucking boner in the shower and he does _not_ have enough time in here to deal with it -- not if he wants to save any hot water for the rest of the Losers. 

He twists the tap around to “cold” and hisses at the sensation of the icy water cascading down his back. It helps immensely to make him not-so-damn-horny. Combined with the guilt that wraps around him, just as cold as the water, at the realization of what he’s started (and the realization that he doesn’t have the willpower to stop it in its tracks).

It’s hardly fair of him to take advantage of Eddie’s vulnerabilities like that. He should’ve told him _no._ He should have… fuck, he should have _lied_ and said that _no, he isn’t a virgin; sure, he’s kissed plenty of people before. Sorry, Eds, you’re on your own. Good luck._

He doesn’t have that kind of sense, though. He told him the _truth,_ or at least part of it. The _truth_ being that he is, in fact, a virgin, and he has, in fact, never kissed anyone. And that he doesn’t quite know how, either. And that the reason he couldn’t even be fucking _bothered_ with it in high school despite all his joking and bragging is that he’d already had his sights set on someone he wanted to experience all those things with from the get-go. He spent his entire high school career pretending he was getting all kinds of pussy, that girls were just throwing themselves at him at every turn (joking that he was a _catch_ and that he was a pro at seducing everyone’s _mothers_ and could get it from any girl he wanted) because he didn’t want anyone to catch on the the fact that he was completely, utterly, head-over-fucking heels for Eddie and he was afraid of anyone finding out. Afraid of what would happen -- to _both_ of them. 

Kissing Eddie is _literally_ a dream come true, but it makes him feel sick because Eddie has no clue, and Richie’s just selfishly taking whatever he can get to to quell that burning that’s lived inside of him for almost a decade, despite knowing damn well that Eddie’s never going to feel the same. Eddie can do _so much fucking better than_ **_him._ **

Richie’s not dumb. He knows he’s awkward and not particularly attractive, and that he’s a nuisance at best, but that doesn’t mean he has any control over how he feels about him. Not everyone can fall in love with someone who’s actually in their league. Richie’s pasty and gangly and weirdly-proportioned. He’s got a crooked smile (and the only reason he hasn’t got crooked _teeth_ is two years with braces), a funny-looking nose, facial hair that will _still_ only grow in patchy at best, acne that never seems to go away, and a mouth that doesn’t know when to fucking _stop._

Literally _anyone_ would be better than him, and knowing Eddie’s also gay doesn’t actually do much to make him feel any differently about that. He’s no more confident in the possibility of Eddie ever liking him back than if he still thought Eddie was into girls. Richie’s never had anyone falling over themselves to get with him, like he used to pretend. 

He was an awkward kid, and an awkward teenager, and now, as a young adult, he’s just as awkward as ever.

Eddie’s got some boy from a frat party to chase, probably a _hot_ boy, probably someone who doesn’t wear big, ugly glasses or snort when he laughs or make jokes about his dick at every available opportunity.

He leaves the shower feeling a whole hell of a lot more dejected than he was a few minutes ago, but that’s what he gets for ever letting himself think about his chances with someone as goddamn _perfect_ as Eddie Kaspbrak.

But he’s not going to abandon him, he decides as he fishes the shaving cream out of the cabinet under the sink. Eddie wants help figuring out how kissing works for… for _whoever_ he ends up with (maybe he wants help figuring out _more,_ and Richie doesn’t know if that prospect is terrifying or elating) and Richie isn’t going to leave him to do that all on his own, unless that’s what he decides he wants.

_(selfish selfish that’s_ **_so fucking selfish are you kidding--)_ **

Whether that’s a little bit for his own personal gain, well… he’s just established that he isn’t fucking _perfect,_ hasn’t he?

Besides, if being a practice dummy for whatever Eddie wants to try is any worse than some of the things he’s imagined doing to Eddie in his hormone-crazed adolescence, then he’s a monkey’s fucking uncle, how’s that?

He has to remind himself of all those things, all over again, when Eddie corners him in the upstairs hallway after he’s finally convinced his traitorous stomach to deal with some damn food. Everyone else is downstairs in recovery mode, making a carefully _quiet_ commotion (the television on, volume low, the clattering of dishes slow and deliberate, Bill bitching about something or other and Bev poking fun at him). He has a shift at the theatre tonight and he’s got to change into his uniform, and Eddie follows him right upstairs and stops him dead. 

“Were you okay with that?” he asks, and all at once the tenacity with which he’d made Richie freeze in his tracks melts away and leaves him looking terribly nervous. “I mean,” he adds, avoiding eye contact, “with us… you know. Was that okay? I didn’t…”

He trails off, but Richie knows him well enough to know the next words out of his mouth were going to be something along the lines of, _“cross any boundaries, did I?”_ but honestly, it’s probably Richie doing the (incredibly selfish) boundary-crossing at this point. He doesn’t tell him that, of course. What he tells him is, “It’s all good, Eds. More than good. I said I wanted to, remember? If we’re both, like, totally inexperienced, what’s the harm in figuring shit out together, right?”

“Right.” Eddie nods, finally looking at him, a tentative smile tugging at his lips. “Did you mean what you said, then? About, uh, wanting to practice more?”

Richie’s heart is literally trying to escape through his ribs, but he keeps it together, keeps it cool, doesn’t start hyperventilating at his stupidly hot best friend asking if it’s _cool_ if they just practice kissing some more, as if he actually _wants_ that -- like, _specifically_ with Richie, which truly does put him right on the verge of hyperventilation, even though he knows he’s only imagining that last bit. “‘Course,” he says in a shockingly even voice. “Whatever you want, Eds, I’m up for it. I’ll be your guy.” He shoots finger guns at Eddie in just the _best,_ the most _well-thought-out_ move of the century, because that’s just _so_ sexy and totally appropriate in the context of this conversation (good fucking Lord, is he ever a fucking idiot), but Eddie just grins, all dimples, and his tongue pokes out between his teeth as he graces Richie’s ears with a little giggle and _Jay-sus Christ on a jumped-up chariot-driven crutch, what the fuck has he gone and gotten himself into?_

He is so, so unbelievably fucked, in ways that would probably make Bev spit out her drink laughing if it wasn’t such a miserable predicament to be in (she’d either give him sympathy or laugh herself into a coma, or maybe both, who even knows). He’s goddamn _smitten_ and here he is, moron of the year, pretty much saying, _“Yeah, I’m hopelessly in love with you, and it’s definitely unhealthy, and you want to learn how to have sex and not be awkward about it so you can go find yourself a man who_ **_actually_ ** _deserves you and feel like you’re actually_ **_prepared_ ** _to be with him? Well, you’ve come to the right place! Take my first kiss! Take my heart! Hell, take my virginity while you’re at it! I hope your future boyfriend appreciates you as much as I do, because if he doesn’t I will snap his fucking neck, and that is a promise!”_

Yeah, okay, he needs to get a handle on his jealousy before he actually becomes a violent person over it, but _seriously._ How fucking stupid _is_ he?

Stupid enough, apparently, that when Eddie says, all fucking bright and eager in a way that _does something_ to him, “Okay! Um, can we… like, right now…?” as he gestures to their bedroom door, a soft pink blush resting across his cheeks, Richie doesn’t have anywhere close to the amount of self-discipline required to deny him. He grabs him by the wrist and all but _drags_ him into their room, closing the door behind them, and he grabs Eddie’s face and kisses him again, unable to give a single flying fuck about seeming too keen to take him up on the offer. Eddie’s fingers curl into the hair at the back of his neck again and he opens his mouth right away to press their tongues together. Richie is _convinced_ the last twenty-four hours have been some kind of vivid fever-dream, and he’s going to wake up any second to _crushing disappointment._

Eddie takes a step forward, pressing against his chest, then another, and Richie realizes he’s trying to make him move. He goes willingly. Steps back until his legs hit the edge of his bed and he stumbles, landing on his ass on the worn mattress. Eddie keeps on fucking kissing him, which is just… _fuck,_ it’s just making him light-headed and forcing him to think about ice-cold showers to prevent another _incident_ like the one in the shower (lest he come across as some sort of pervert, which he _is,_ but Eddie doesn’t need to know that). A feat made quite literally impossible when he feels Eddie’s knees come up to rest on either side of him. His eyes would go wide if they weren’t squeezed shut, as he’s a bit preoccupied trying to hide the fact that his pupils are probably dilated to hell. 

“That’s so much better,” Eddie says against his lips as he pauses for breath. “You’re so fucking tall, dude, it’s hurting my neck.”

And that, at least, startles a laugh out of Richie, a little bit because he wasn’t expecting to be insulted right now and a little bit because _wow,_ Eddie’s really straddling him like this with no fucking clue what it’s doing to him, isn’t he? Whatever he thought about material to jerk off to earlier, it was a lie, and it will be replaced promptly by the way it feels to have Eddie’s weight brushing the tops of his thighs and his knees squeezing against him, hands on his shoulders as he leans in to press their lips together again.

Oh, he is _beyond_ fucked at this point.

* * *


	3. Course Syllabus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Step 2: Awkward handjobs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come chat with me on Tumblr!](https://ghostnebula.tumblr.com/)

* * *

Eddie’s worried he’s going to go up in flames.

This is all his fault, anyway, so he’d probably deserve it. 

He was given the perfect opportunity, yesterday, to preserve some of his dignity and the idiotic, horny part of his brain that is fuelled by thoughts of Richie just _touching_ him had taken over. 

“Where are we drawing the line?” Richie asks, as they laze on Eddie’s bed together, homework forgotten on the floor somewhere. “Like, is the goal just mastering the art of _kissing,_ or…?”

Eddie fails to ignore the spike of heat that punches through his gut at the implication. “I mean,” he replies, definitely at least a _little_ red in the face, heart working overtime, “If the point is to actually learn how to have sex, since we’re both, y’know--”

“Hopeless, inexperienced virgins?” Richie interrupts with a cheeky grin. His fingers are rubbing over Eddie’s neck and throat where he’s been holding onto him as they made out, playing with the ends of his hair, grazing over a deeply sensitive spot just below his ear, and making it _too fucking hard_ to scowl at him when he jokes around like that.

“Yes,” Eddie concedes, trying not to fucking _moan_ when Richie’s thumb presses over that spot _again,_ and his dick is much too excited by such a simple touch for him to remain composed. Or make sensible decisions, for that matter. “Since we both have no experience, then if it’s okay with you, I think I’d feel most comfortable with us learning together. Better you than some stranger who’s going to judge me for not knowing this stuff already, right?”

“Right,” Richie says, then presses their lips together again and keeps him occupied for several long minutes. At one point the hand resting on the side of Eddie’s throat jumps down to his thigh, dragging him _just a tiny bit closer,_ and all the rest of the blood rushes out of his brain at that point, so he’s left fighting these intense adolescent urges his mother always warned him about with nothing but sheer (crumbling) willpower.

And it’s a good fucking thing Richie stops when he does, because Eddie’s half a second from crawling on top of him and grinding down until they’re both coming in their pants when he leans back and plants a kiss on Eddie’s forehead instead. For once, Eddie doesn’t push his face away when he does that, because for some reason it just manages to turn him on _more,_ and that’s how he knows he’s going to completely fuck himself over by pursuing sex with his best friend -- _nothing_ will feel innocent anymore. His stupid horny brain doesn’t see as much of a problem with that as it should. 

“So,” Richie starts, with his lips still too close to his forehead, warm breath fanning over his skin and making Eddie’s eyes roll, and _for fuck’s sake,_ he needs to get a damn _grip._ “Like, right now, or…?”

Oh, no, if Richie tries to touch him right now Eddie is _guaranteed_ to pass out, which carries the potential of ruining their arrangement before it’s even given a chance to thrive, and even as turned on as he is, Eddie can recognize that. He needs to, like, _mentally_ prepare. “Right now, you need to finish the essay you’ve been bitching about all week. And I need to study for my physics test.”

“Okay, yeah, that’s fair.” Richie half-crawls over him and reaches out with his stupidly-long arms to gather some of their books up off the floor where they’ve been abandoned. “Do we need, like, a game plan? How does this work? Are we going to take out library books on sex positions? Watch porn together? Do you already have a pretty good idea of what revs your engines or are we starting from scratch? Do you--”

“Richie.”

“--have lube? Condoms? I think--”

_“Richie.”_

“Yeah?”

Eddie inhales deeply through his nose, still trying to get his brain function back up to one-hundred percent, since at least half of it is still lingering by his crotch, wondering what Richie fucking him would feel like _(fantastic,_ it concludes, against his will). He’s probably going to cause the greatest disappointment of his life by saying this, but it’s only fair. “It’s alright if you don’t want to do this. I get if you’re nervous. I’m nervous, too. We don’t have to do anything if it’s too much. I appreciate you offering to help at all.”

Richie starts speaking almost before Eddie’s finished. “No, no, trust me. I definitely want to! I’ve got a pretty good idea of what I want with, y’know, a sexual partner, it’s just the execution that I’m not so confident about. So I think we should iron out some details if this is something we’re going to do.”

“Details? Like what?”

Like a “game plan,” as Richie suggests. 

Like: What does Eddie _want?_ He wants to be able to have sex and not completely fuck it up the first time. 

Have sex _how?_ The way gay men do, right? Someone’s dick in his ass. (Richie chokes on his saliva a bit there, probably not expecting crude language like that out of him right off the bat, and Eddie grins as innocently as he can about it.) 

What does _Richie_ want? Mostly to fuck someone, but he is, quote-unquote, “up for a dick in my ass, if you’re interested,” and the conversation pretty much derails from there, both of them red in the face but laughing and shoving at each other, only pretending to do any actual work.

“We’ll work up to it,” is the conclusion, and if either of them were more like Stan, they’d use a page from one of their notebooks to make a _real_ plan. A concrete goal and an outline, a to-do list with scheduled dates: _“November 20th - try blowjobs,” “December 1st - fingering,”_ so on and so forth.

  
  


But neither of them is Stanley Uris, with his scheduling and his primness and his perfection. They’re two idiots navigating the treacherous waters of their first sexual experiences and hoping to god things go smoothly. 

So they’re going to wing it, because it’s what they do best.

Richie came home _late,_ after closing up at the theatre, smelling like popcorn and the blue raspberry slushie he managed to spill on his pants during his shift, shirt unbuttoned at the collar and the no-longer-crisp bowtie hanging loose around his neck.

And Eddie thought, you know, that probably shouldn’t be sexy. He thought, _it’s probably_ **_weird_ ** _that I find that sexy._

So, yes, this is all his fault, because he _initiated_ this, and also because he didn’t put a stop to it yesterday when Richie offered, so now he’s just going to completely screw himself over and touch a penis that isn’t his own for the first time ever.

Yeah: he’s going to burst into flames any second.

Richie’s shirt is unbuttoned the rest of the way now. Eddie presses a kiss to his collarbone and resists the urge to do more -- bite, suck, leave some kind of mark -- as he draws away to work open the fly of Richie’s work pants, and the belt, the stupid _belt._

The moment he has Richie’s pants open, he reaches in and grabs him through his boxers, because he _knows_ if he hesitates he’ll second-guess himself and then he’ll panic and then he’ll spiral and he’ll _ruin it_ \-- so instead of ruining it he dives in headfirst (well, hand-first). Richie makes a high noise in the back of his throat as Eddie’s fingers close around his dick, eyes slipping closed. 

“Is this okay?” Eddie asks, and Richie’s nodding as he drags him into a kiss that has their teeth slamming together painfully, Richie’s tongue slipping through as he tries to press as deep as possible.

“Yeah, yeah, more than okay,” he’s saying, as he tries to shove his pants and underwear down around his thighs to give Eddie better access, firming up in his grip already, and somehow Eddie’s heart is beating in his throat and his stomach simultaneously. “Can I…?” But Richie doesn’t finish the question, just reaches up to cover Eddie’s hand with his own. He squeezes around his fist, making him grip tighter, making him pump faster, as his jaw goes slack and his head tips back. “Holy shit.”

_Holy shit, indeed,_ Eddie’s thinking as Richie lets go and Eddie keeps jerking him off, unable to tear his gaze away from the sight of Richie like this, hard in his hand, bigger than he could have anticipated. He wants to put his mouth on it. He wants it _inside_ of him. Neither of them is ready for that yet, of course, but this is the most Eddie’s ever wanted those things in his whole life. His mouth is _literally_ watering just at the _idea._ Richie bought condoms and lube this morning, in preparation, but that doesn’t mean they’re going to use them right this instant, no matter how bad Eddie wants it.

(In his most intimate fantasies, he’s the only one Richie would ever want like this, and Richie would have no qualms just using him and taking what he wants until Eddie is crying for it, and he _knows_ Richie can never, ever know about that, not even while they’re doing _this,_ or he’ll probably destroy their friendship altogether.)

_(There has to be_ **_limits.)_ **

That doesn’t stop him from _wishing_ Richie would pin him down and just fuck him. It’s something they need to work up to. Eddie hasn’t got a _proper_ clue as to what the hell they’re doing, except knowing that he wants them to reach a point where they’ve figured out how to progress from awkward handjobs to Richie _fucking him._

So that he can, one day, let someone else fuck him. Of course. _That’s_ what he wants. _Of course._ It’s not fair to Richie for Eddie to expect any _more_ of him. 

Richie’s fingers are curling around the waistband of his sleep shorts, not quite tugging them down yet, and his breathing is quick as he looks Eddie in the eye and asks, “Is it alright if I--?”

“Yeah,” Eddie interrupts, nodding, shifting closer, his hand on Richie’s cock pumping faster. Richie hisses between his teeth. Eddie rocks up on his knees to help Richie pull his shorts down around his thighs, taking his underwear with them. 

He can feel how red he is, feel it creeping from his cheeks and ears down to his chest, and he’s sure his heart is going to beat right out of his throat. Like, he’s one-hundred percent going to puke it up, when Richie’s hand closes around his dick and he makes probably the most embarrassing noise he’s ever made in his _life._

Except then Richie giggles and presses a kiss to his cheek, then to the corner of his mouth, and he’s _smiling,_ and Eddie’s fucking _melting_ while Richie strokes him with his _stupid massive hand_ and kisses him properly. Pleasure rockets up his spine and he thinks maybe his fingers spasm where he’s still got Richie squeezed in his fist, but he finds that suddenly he doesn’t care so much. No one else has ever touched him like this before, save his own self, and this certainly isn’t like _that._

He bucks up into Richie’s fist, whining right against his lips, and Richie seems to take that as an invitation to lick into his mouth, which Eddie has no issue with. His legs are trembling under his own weight, because he’s still half-kneeling with his shorts pulled down around his thighs and he doesn’t know if it’s nerves or the _high_ of having Richie’s hands on him like this, _finally,_ that’s making him shake. Probably the latter, if the way he has to grab onto Richie’s shoulder with his free hand for support as Richie thumbs over his head is any indication. 

He wants-- _god,_ he wants to just push forward, into Richie’s space, and grind down against him, feel Richie’s heavy cock rubbing against his own instead of just in his hand, but he doesn’t want to overstep. So he just continues to thrust shallowly into Richie’s hand as a low heat simmers in his gut, breath stuttering when Richie dips down to press a kiss to the side of his throat. 

“Fuck, Eddie,” he growls, right against his throat, and his free hand presses against his lower back, fingers splayed, drawing Eddie in closer, holding him in place while Richie jerks him off. And it’s probably because this is the most excited he’s ever been in his life, or because this is the first time anyone’s ever touched him like this, or that one spot on his throat is terribly sensitive, or -- more likely -- because he _really_ has a thing for Richie’s hands and it’s starting to become a problem, but that heat reaches a boil all at once. He arches his back, and his mouth falls open around an obscene noise that he’s pretty sure was meant to be Richie’s name, as he comes, spilling over Richie’s fingers. Without meaning to, or even being aware of it, he sinks his nails into the meat of Richie’s shoulder where he was balancing himself as his legs finally give out and he drops back onto his ass. 

He feels Richie’s warm cum coating his hand before he’s even registered he’d made Richie orgasm, and then he’s sinking back against the headboard with a contented sigh. Richie presses a wad of tissues into his dirty hand. 

There are short red lines carved into his shoulder and Eddie thinks, _damn,_ he’d like to leave more of _those_ on him, before he snaps back to reality and has to face the fact that he made Richie fucking _bleed_ and that _isn’t okay._ “Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”

Richie raises an eyebrow at him as he finishes scrubbing Eddie’s cum from between his fingers _(holy fuck?),_ and asks, tentatively, “What do you need to apologize for?”

“I… I _scratched_ you.” Eddie still hasn’t quite caught his breath. He’s already trying to scramble off the bed to go wash his hands properly and get the first aid kit so he can clean those, pulling his shorts up as he goes -- if Richie gets an infection and it’s _his fault_ he’s going to be a hell of a lot more broken up about it than Richie will.

Richie has dropped his ice cream on the pavement and still eaten it, after all. He’s neglected to clean scraped knees for _days._ He’s left splinters embedded in his skin because he “forgot about them.” 

(He’s a human disaster, and Eddie can’t believe he likes him so damn much, yet here he is.)

This one is Eddie’s fault, though, so when Richie stops him from leaving, he starts to protest (he’s _going_ to clean those cuts if it’s the last thing he does, even though they really aren’t all that deep and he can tell he’s mostly panicking because of what they just _did)._ Except that, of course, Richie Tozier is a little _shit,_ and as soon as Eddie opens his mouth to start complaining, Richie’s kissing him, and he doesn’t have it in him to _not_ reciprocate. 

He could spend the rest of his life kissing Richie, if the universe were a little bit more kind to him. 

He tries to start bitching again when Richie pulls away, but he starts talking first. “That’s fine, Eds. I’ll deal with it later. I mean, really,” he twists his head around to look at his own shoulder and the tiny, raw claw-marks, “you can do that all you want. It felt good.”

“Not if it’s gonna hurt you,” Eddie whines, already pouting, that instinct to mother all his friends that was accidentally instilled in him (through the process of making him worry about every little _damn thing_ around him) trying to take over. That same force that drives him to stop Richie and Bill from jumping over the railing into the bay when they’re at the waterfront, and that makes him keep snacks in his backpack in case one of the Losers is hungry when they’re out and about, or someone’s blood sugar is low. Not to mention the mini first aid kit he’s carried everywhere with him since childhood. 

Richie kisses him again, just a quick peck, and he’s laughing as he says, “I _just_ said it felt good,” as he reaches up to cup Eddie’s face with his free hand.

Which, normally, would have his heart rate picking up, and would probably make arousal flare in his gut if he hadn’t _just_ had an orgasm less than two minutes ago, but in this moment he makes a _face_ and pushes him away. “Ew, Richie, don’t touch me with your dick hand, what the fuck?”

Richie laughs _more,_ letting go of Eddie altogether to wave his arms in front of him. “Actually, _both_ of my hands are ‘dick' hands. Get it? Because my name is--”

Eddie’s already groaning and trying to shove him off the bed.

* * *


	4. Intro to "Sex With Your Best Friend"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The many life struggles of Richie "I'm going to mark this boy like he's my damn territory" Tozier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Chat with me on Tumblr!](https://ghostnebula.tumblr.com/)

* * *

“Are you seriously still watching _Looney Tunes?_ Don’t you have an assignment you’ve been complaining about all day?” Eddie comes marching into their room wearing nothing but a towel, which Richie very much appreciates -- though the scowl he appreciates significantly _less._

“And I will continue to complain until the motivation to actually work on it strikes. That is the Tozier way.”

He doesn’t need to see Eddie’s face to know he’s rolling his eyes, or that he’s probably wearing that goofy little half-grin Richie always sees when he’s trying _so hard_ not to laugh. “You’re going to flunk out of college with that kind of work ethic.”

Instead of retorting that _“No, because that work ethic managed to make him valedictorian in high school so he’s clearly doing_ **_something_ ** _right,”_ he cranes his neck to enjoy the view and ignores the internal reprimand about being a fucking _perv,_ as Eddie drops the towel and starts shimmying into a clean pair of boxers, back turned to him. And because he manages to be a damn idiot _in spite_ of being valedictorian -- and because he has limited impulse control at best -- he says, “Like what I see, I do.”

Eddie shoots him a _look_ over his shoulder, but Richie can see that half-grin and he gives one in return. “Do you think the Yoda Voice is _sexy?”_ Though he doesn’t have Richie fooled, even with his mock-disgust, because there’s a blush rising along his cheekbones, and Richie is thinking he should compliment him more often, and more sincerely, on all the parts of his body he likes so much -- maybe without sounding so pervy about it.

“Why? Turn you on, does it?” He flutters his eyelashes all innocent and then Eddie loses whatever internal war he’s waging and starts giggling like an idiot, still red in the face.

“Try Han Solo, that’s more my speed,” he says, and Richie didn’t really expect _that,_ not that he’s sure what exactly he _did_ expect.

“...Huh,” is what he says, dumbly, nodding to himself. “Good to know. I will get started on next year’s Halloween costume _pronto.”_ There’s quiet for a moment while Eddie rummages around in search of pants and Richie tries (and fails) not to picture them wearing a _couples_ costume, and dragging Eddie off to some quiet, dark room to… to… _okay,_ maybe that’s too much for his brain.

And dick.

The best part is, he _can._ He can do all those things he shouldn’t be imagining to Eddie, even if they do need to work up to it first -- and even if it takes some awkward fumbling and botched blowjobs to finally get there. 

(Plus, he doesn’t actually have to wait until Halloween to dress Eddie up as Leia, which is now something he is _seriously_ considering.)

“Come here,” he says, sitting up a little more against the headboard and patting the bed beside him.

Eddie huffs. “One second. I’m trying to find my work pants. I _swear_ I washed them the other day.”

Oh, yes, the ratty sweatpants that he doesn’t care about ruining, that hug his ass _just_ the right way -- the ones Richie is intimately familiar with, uh, _drooling over_ even when Eddie comes back from the garage all smudged with grease and sweaty and irritable. _Those_ pants. 

As if he needed anything _else_ to turn him on right now.

“No, come here, _now,”_ he demands, and he really can’t help that he’s still staring at Eddie’s ass, and he is so, so, _so_ fucked. This is his _best friend_ (a close contender with Stan, except that Richie doesn’t spend every day of his life fantasizing about getting into Stan’s pants). 

But that’s exactly the problem, isn’t it? he thinks, as Eddie fixes him with this little _look,_ a tiny pout, and struts his pretty little ass right over to Richie’s bed with his arms crossed to give him a bitchy, _“What?”_ still clad only in boxers.

He makes what is probably, objectively, a _funny_ noise when Richie grabs him and yanks him onto the bed with him, but actually the cute little squeak just goes straight to his dick, and did he mention he’s totally fucked? 

He’d like for _Eddie_ to be totally fucked, actually.

Eddie doesn’t even fight back when he lifts him right up (and _Jesus,_ holy _fuck,_ it is _brain-melting_ that it’s so fucking easy to just pick him up and move him around like this) and sets him down on top of him. And Richie is a weak, weak man -- he’s starting to get hard before Eddie’s knees have even settled on either side of him.

“Richie, I have to go to work soon,” Eddie whines, but he doesn’t make any attempt at escaping. In fact -- Richie’s sure he’s having a wet dream -- he rolls his hips forward, just the tiniest bit, and his lips part around a breath and Richie has to kiss him.

_Has_ to, because he might say something he regrets if his mouth isn’t otherwise occupied.

And again, Eddie doesn’t make a move to put a stop to it. If anything he melts right into the kiss, one hand sliding up to cup Richie’s cheek, and he _definitely_ puts a little more muscle into grinding against him this time. It’s mostly subconscious when he squeezes tighter where his hands still rest on Eddie’s hips (but wouldn’t he love -- wouldn’t he fucking _love_ \-- to leave pretty little bruises there?) and he has to force himself to relax his grip, focus on the feeling of Eddie’s lips slick against his own, focus on _not telling him_ how bad he wishes he could just keep him all to himself forever.

But he isn’t going to ruin a good thing, even if that thing is pretty fucking unhealthy, so he keeps his damn idealisms to himself.

“Is the door locked?” Eddie asks, bare centimetres from his face, heavy breaths damp against Richie’s cheek, and really, the whole world has narrowed down to this tiny bubble that only fits the two of them inside, and everything else can get fucked for all he cares. Fuck the door. He’s more concerned with the way Eddie’s throat bobs when he swallows and how unblemished and inviting it is. How his bare shoulders could do with some nice marks to show the world that _Richie did that._

Richie Tozier _tapped that_ and at least for the time being, he gets to keep Eddie all to himself, and he _shouldn’t_ just cover him in hickeys at his own leisure but--

“Who the fuck cares?” he says and presses his lips to the side of Eddie’s throat, just below the edge of his jaw, where the coconut shampoo he uses takes over his senses. The confused sound he makes is cut off by a gasp when Richie’s tongue presses to the still-damp skin there, then his teeth (just a _touch,_ not enough to leave a mark, not _yet)._ He’s got a pretty good idea of how hickeys work from when he used to screw around, back when they were just barely pushing the preteen years, and suck on the skin of his arm until it bruised, just to show it off to the rest of the (then much smaller) Losers Club. 

Which is funny, because back then he’d been practicing to do it to a girl even though he kept wanting to kiss Eddie’s cheek where they were all soft and spotted with freckles from too much exposure to the sun, and touch his ankles when they lounged in the shade together, and hold his hands in the winter when he complained of the cold (and even when he _didn’t_ complain of the cold). 

The difference now is that Eddie isn’t making fun of him or calling him a weirdo anymore, because he’s busy whispering, “Ohfuck _Richie,”_ and pressing what is suddenly a very hard dick right up against his pelvis with extra vigor. 

“Is this okay?” Richie asks, muffled, working the purpling skin between his teeth a bit more just because he likes the high, breathy whine it gets him. He’s pretty sure he knows the answer anyway, but it doesn’t change the fact that if Richie covers him in bruises and bite marks, it’s going to be difficult to hide.

(But does he _want_ to hide it?)

Eddie nods, the movement impeded by Richie’s face against his throat, and chokes out a, “Yeah, yes, it’s fine.” Richie once again has to make a conscious effort to _relax his grip_ where he’s guiding Eddie’s hips to roll against his. They haven’t done anything like this before. It gets Richie more riled up than he _should_ be, just knowing that they’re touching like this -- even through a few layers of fabric. He considers getting Eddie out of his underwear, taking a moment to strip off his own clothes, but he can’t bring himself to stop, chasing the friction between them with his lips attached to Eddie’s throat like his fucking life depends on it, and he makes such a pretty noise when Richie finally caves and bites down _hard_. 

There’s not much restraint left in his body, so when he gets the thought into his head that he wants Eddie underneath him, he obeys unquestioningly, teeth still digging into Eddie’s clavicle and Eddie’s hand curled into the wild mess of curls on his head like he can hold him there forever. Richie puts one hand against Eddie’s back and braces himself with the other, still amazed at the ease with which he’s able to just _move_ Eddie as he rolls them over and keeps himself pressed between Eddie’s spread legs.

“That better?” he asks, swallowing down the _“baby”_ he wants to tack on to the end of the sentence, and Eddie’s initial response turns into a moan when Richie goes for his throat again.

“Richie,” he manages to choke out, as Richie finds his balance and ruts forward against him, chasing an orgasm he knows can’t be far off. _This is what it would be like,_ to spread Eddie out underneath him and fuck him.

This is what it _will_ be like, when they’ve finally navigated all the obstacles that litter the path to that uncharted territory.

And it’s something he’s wanted since he first figured out how to get his dick hard, so _finally_ being able to just hold him down and wrap those perfect legs around his waist, teeth scraping over the taut skin of his throat while Eddie whines beneath him (this is what he’ll sound like when Richie fucks him for _real,_ a giddy little thought that has him twitching in his pants), it’s probably going to kill him before he gets a chance to even come.

And he would die a happy man.

“Richie, I wanna--” Eddie tries again, hands still fisted in Richie’s hair (and _Jesus_ does it ever feel good, those tiny hands clinging onto him like that, pain prickling at his scalp and sending shivers down his body that just go straight to his dick, and he’d never thought having his hair pulled could be so _hot,_ but here he is). He doesn’t finish whatever it is he’s trying to say, because his legs go stiff where they’re all wrapped around Richie and his mouth pops open as his head tips back against the pillow -- Richie’s pretty sure he actually yanks out chunks of his hair but he couldn’t care less, no matter how much that _actually_ hurt.

There’s a barely-there tremble in Eddie’s thighs and Richie leans back enough to watch him wind down from his orgasm, bright spots of colour flaring even darker across his cheeks. “I-- sorry, I--” he’s beginning to say, and Richie doesn’t want any of that shit, especially not while he’s literally still humping against him like a fucking dog, so he kisses him, even if it _does_ earn him an indignant _hmph._

And, yeah, like a fucking teenager (because he still _is_ one, thank you very much) he comes in his pants, and it’s fucking mind-blowing and he does it pressed bodily to _Eddie Kaspbrak,_ whose own jizz has formed a wet patch on his boxers and effectively dampened the front of Richie’s jeans, which is _also_ mind-blowing because _that’s hot as hell,_ he can’t _fucking believe_ he just did that. He moans right into Eddie’s open mouth and his hips stutter against Eddie’s a few times as he comes, and then goes limp right on top of him.

Eddie gives him a breathless laugh and swats at his shoulder. “You’re gonna crush me, dude. Get up.”

Richie hums where his lips and nose are now squashed against Eddie’s cheek, still breathing too fast, and he really can’t stop the satisfied grin that pulls at his face. “You’re so _cozy,_ though, Eds. Like a lil teddy bear.”

“I’m going to suffocate if you don’t get your ass off of me in the next five seconds.”

_“Pshaw,”_ says Richie, moving to roll off of him anyway. “Just admit you _love_ when I’m on top of you.”

_“Richie.”_ Eddie’s whole face goes red and Richie grins brighter.

“Really? We both just creamed our pants like fucking fourteen-year-olds and _that’s_ what embarrasses you?”

“I’m plenty embarrassed about coming in my pants that fast, too, _thanks.”_

They only lie around long enough to realize how profoundly uncomfortable it’ll be if they let the cum dry in their underwear, and that Eddie will _definitely_ be late for work if they stay like this, and then they play rock-paper-scissors to figure out who gets the shower first (Eddie does a lot of pissing and moaning about having _literally just_ showered, and then a great deal _more_ pissing and moaning when he loses). 

Eddie lets himself into the washroom while Richie’s showering anyway, but he isn’t making any attempts to clean himself up when Richie shuts off the water and steps out onto the bath mat. He’s standing in front of the mirror, fingers at his throat, tracing over the clear outline of Richie’s teeth just above his collarbone. Instead of complaining about... about _germs_ or infected wounds or something -- maybe about someone in one of his classes or at the garage _seeing --_ he says, “Are we telling the other Losers?”

And Richie, frankly, has made a conscious decision not to put any significant amount of thought into the matter, outside of sometimes locking their door so Bill doesn’t walk in on them with their tongues down each other’s throats or their hands down each other’s pants. Not because he doesn’t think it’s _important_ to think about, but because it forces him to consider the question: Would they be okay with it? 

He’d like to believe the rest of the Losers would just accept their “lifestyle choices” and move on. Ideally, they won’t make a huge deal of it. But there’s always an element of risk involved with these things, as Richie is quite aware. 

Do they jeopardize their relationship with the five best friends in the whole world, or do they continue to live their lives pretending they’re straight, and that they _aren’t_ having sex, and would _never_ have sex?

Eddie, it appears, has different reservations. “I mean, they’d probably assume we’re dating, right? And we’re not, obviously. But I don’t know if…” He sighs. “I don’t know that they wouldn’t think it’s _weird_ for us to be doing this stuff if we aren’t.”

And Richie -- _god_ \-- Richie is so _stupid,_ and his mouth has severed ties with his brain, and he stupidly _stupidly_ just comes right out and asks, “You don’t… _want_ to date me, do you?” because he’s got a tiny spark of hope burning in his chest and a massive crush with a vice grip on his heart. 

Eddie blinks at his reflection a few times before saying, tautly, “Just this is fine.” And then Richie’s stuck under that bright gaze, or the _reflection_ of it, at least, as he watches a tentative smile pass over Eddie’s lips. “What we’re doing is fine.”

(It’s _not,_ not to Richie, because he wants _so much more,_ but it’s _enough._ Enough to sate him, for now.)

“Maybe let’s not tell them,” Richie offers, “and if one of them finds out, then so be it. We’ll burn that bridge when we get to it, or however that saying goes.”

_He_ knows he’s saying it wrong, _Eddie_ knows he’s saying it wrong, and he gets to watch Eddie giggle with his little pink tongue poking out between his teeth and it honestly doesn’t matter to him if they _never_ date, as long as he can keep doing this with him and _pretending._

* * *


	5. Blowjobs 101

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s about to ask what’s wrong but Eddie beats him to the chase.  
> “I want to try giving you a blowjob,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW:  
> -mentions of homophobic attitudes & homophobic graffiti
> 
> That should be it.
> 
> [Bother me on Tumblr whenever](https://ghostnebula.tumblr.com/)

* * *

It’s Eddie stirring that wakes Richie up. 

Neither of them have any classes until this afternoon, but Eddie’s not one to laze in bed all day the way Richie is, so he’s trying to wiggle out from under the arm and leg Richie’s got draped over him -- probably halfway to crushing him.

“What’s cookin’, good-lookin’?” he croaks around the dryness in his throat, and Eddie, who’s barely managed to get away from him, stops where he is. Something else occurs to him as Eddie laughs and tries to twist his head around to look at him. “Aw, fuck, sorry.”

It isn’t uncommon for them to have an embarrassing encounter with each other’s morning wood. They’re both healthy young men, after all, and they _frequently_ share a bed, so it’s become something of an inevitability. They’ve learned to shrug it off, and now, Richie lifts his limbs so Eddie can actually escape from the koala-grip he’s trapped in.

Except he just… doesn’t. He stares at Richie over his shoulder, and he looks terribly uncertain as he says, “Can I, um… Do you want me to do something about it?”

And Richie’s just barely awake, so it takes long enough for the gears in his brain to start turning that Eddie feels the need to clarify. Not with words, apparently, but he tentatively pushes his hips back and whatever blood was left in Richie’s brain abandons ship. The hand he just moved to let Eddie escape slams down on his hip and his fingers are probably grabbing _too_ hard, but he’s _dizzy_ for a few seconds thinking about-- 

About actually _fucking_ Eddie, just like this, lazy and way too early to be awake, and how sweet it would be to just slide right into the heat of his body and fuck up against his prostate until he’s half out of his mind. Until he’s _begging_ Richie to please let him come.

Yeah, there’s _definitely_ not any more blood flow to his brain, which is probably why he doesn’t hesitate to give Eddie’s hip a firm squeeze where he’s still holding him in place before rutting against him. His cock, stiff in his underwear, is slotted _perfectly_ against Eddie’s ass and he really can’t help the rough moan that spills out of him at the friction. 

He can get off like this. _Fuck,_ he can _absolutely_ get off just like this, clad only in boxers, curled around Eddie with his eyelids still drooping from tiredness, just rocking against him until he can’t take it anymore.

They’ve done pretty much the same before, anyway.

Eddie has other plans, though, and Richie’s not going to lie and say it isn’t disappointment that sits heavy in his throat when Eddie’s little hand wraps around his wrist after a minute or so, and Richie stops dragging Eddie’s hips back to meet his own, albeit reluctantly. He’s about to ask what’s wrong but Eddie beats him to the chase. “I want to try giving you a blowjob,” he says, and he’s turned to look Richie _right in the fucking eye_ with these points of colour sitting high on his cheeks (blurry because Richie’s glasses are still somewhere on the nightstand, but he can make the image out well enough), and _yes,_ Richie’s dick twitches where he’s still holding Eddie to himself, and Eddie definitely felt that, but can he really be _blamed?_

It takes him a couple seconds to find his voice, but those seconds don’t give him time to think better of saying, “There is literally nothing I want more on this fucking planet,” which is just Richie-speak for, _‘God, yes,_ **_please.’_ **

Any hesitation flies out the window as Eddie pushes Richie off of him and climbs off the bed, dropping to his knees on the floor, and Richie goes _dizzy._ He _has_ to be dreaming. 

He pinches his own arm as he stares, dumbstruck, down to where Eddie is impatiently waiting for him to… _Jesus,_ to strip out of his underwear so Eddie can suck him off. 

Richie is beginning to think he must have been a really, _really_ good person in a past life, if he’s being rewarded like _this_ in this one. 

“Richie, c’mon,” Eddie’s whining already, staring up at him with those stunning eyes that make Richie’s knees weak. “I wanna blow you.”

“God, you’re gonna kill me, for real,” Richie squeaks, and that, at least, makes Eddie laugh, even as he’s making grabby hands at Richie.

He shimmies out of his underwear and tosses them aside, snatching his glasses to slam them crookedly onto his face (he needs to see this in full detail or he’ll be missing out, right?) and when he sits up with his legs off the bed, planting his feet flat on the floor, Eddie’s just _right fucking there._ His face is right by Richie’s dick, which is straining desperately now, curved up towards his stomach, darkened by the flow of blood. Precum beads at the tip and soaks the head and Eddie _licks his fucking lips, are you kidding?_

Like it’s something he’s looking forward to (is he? Jesus, _is he?_ Does he really want to blow Richie so much that he’s _excited_ to taste his dick?)

Richie can’t help a little broken sound when Eddie’s hand closes around the base -- he’ll never get over how _big_ it looks around Eddie, which is quite the ego boost, but also makes him wonder; if ever he does get a chance to fuck Eddie, will it even _fit?_ Will they have to go the other way around, because Richie’s going to _break_ Eddie if he tries to get his dick in him?

He isn’t opposed to the idea, of course not, but he’s also, admittedly, a little bit obsessed with the idea of just… _railing_ Eddie until he’s a drooling, incoherent mess. Between the perfect ass and the gorgeous eyes (so pretty when he cries, and Richie will defend that to his dying breath), and his little pouty lips and, just, _everything,_ Richie thinks he’d trade a limb or two for the chance to fuck Eddie into a mattress at least _once._

_“Oh, motherf--”_ Richie slaps a hand over his mouth when Eddie’s tongue darts out to lick the precum shining on the head of his cock. His legs tense up and the mattress springs creak as he jumps, but then Eddie goes back in for more and his head spins, and he _tries_ to keep quiet but he can’t stop himself from talking -- it’s what he _does._ He removes his hand from his mouth and almost, _almost_ slips it into Eddie’s sleep-mussed hair instead, but thinks better of it and grabs at the meat on his own thigh, holding tight as if he can contain that elastic-pulled-taut feeling that’s coiling through his limbs and up his spine. 

“Fuck, holy shit,” he says, then again as Eddie _laves_ his tongue over the head: _“Fuck.”_

Eddie turns those eyes on him, his dark eyebrows furrowed, and pulls his tongue back into his mouth to ask, “Is that okay?”

“More than okay, Eds, holy fuck, _more_ than okay.” 

And Eddie just dives right back in, lapping at his dick like it’s some kind of treat, and Richie might actually be a few moments from passing out just _watching_ him. “That feels amazing,” he reassures, because Eddie’s still staring up at him like _that,_ and Richie decides, _fuck it,_ and slips his hand into those messy curls anyway. It’s the truth, of course; that it feels amazing. He’s never had anything on his cock besides his own hands (and now, Eddie’s), and by comparison, Eddie’s lips and tongue feel like they’re going to catapult him _straight_ to nirvana. 

Especially when Eddie closes his lips around the head and sucks slightly, and Richie has to bite down on his lip to muffle a scream. He comes a hair’s breadth from blowing his load then and there, but the knowledge that Eddie will stop once he’s come -- and God knows how long it will be before he offers another blowjob -- is what stops him.

He wants to see Eddie fit as much of him in his mouth as he can before he comes.

Then Eddie’s back to the little kitten-licks, and Richie should really, really shut up, but his mouth doesn’t understand that, so he’s carding his fingers through Eddie’s hair as his damn stupid mouth says, “That’s good, kitten,” --and it slips right out but he thinks he _wanted_ it to, because looking at Eddie like this it’s all he can think-- “You’re doing good. Think you can get more in your mouth?”

Eddie’s either eager to learn or eager to please, because he’s immediately opening those pretty lips around his cock and sinking down a couple more centimetres than before. Richie says something that might be vulgar or might be praise, he really can’t tell, himself, and it’s all garbled as his hand twists in Eddie’s hair.

He’s never felt anything quite like it before, and when Eddie blinks heavily and forces himself down a little more, Richie’s pretty sure he ascends. His tongue is _hot,_ flexing against the underside of Richie’s dick, against the vein pulsing there, and Richie can tell he’s trying not to drag his teeth on the sensitive skin, but it’s so thick that he’s struggling with it.

He lifts his head, and for a terrible second Richie thinks he’s going to stop, but he’s so close, he’s so fucking close, and he might damn well cry if Eddie stops now. Eddie doesn’t pull off all the way, though, just sucks in a breath through his nose and then works even more of Richie into his mouth, until he gives a little convulsion and has to stop before it hits the back of his throat and makes him gag. Then he does it _again._

Richie doesn’t know what the fuck to do, because this is all new and it feels like fucking heaven, Eddie’s mouth hot and wet and soft around him -- he’s barely preventing himself from thrusting into that heat, chasing his orgasm. He opens his mouth to tell Eddie he’s close, giving a gentle tug on his hair to encourage him to maybe pull off before Richie accidentally comes in his mouth, but then Eddie’s moaning, eyes rolling, and the sudden vibration sends him _rocketing_ over the edge.

Eddie lifts his mouth off of Richie’s cock but it’s too late, because Richie _already_ came in his mouth, and he didn’t _mean_ to. He doesn’t even get to enjoy the aftermath of his own orgasm because he’s too busy lunging for the trash can as Eddie makes a _face_ (an _“ew bitch you were supposed to_ **_warn_ ** _me”_ face) apologizing profusely.

“Here, spit in here -- shit, Eds, I’m so sorry. I tried to tell you, but it just…” Richie rubs over his face with one hand as Eddie spits a mouthful of Richie’s semen into the bin, expression nonplussed but not altogether disgusted, which is (hopefully) a good thing. “I’m so sorry. I won’t do that again.”

“It doesn’t taste bad,” Eddie says, as if _that’s_ what Richie’s concerned about. Then he adds, “We need to put a fucking bag in that bin, Richie. It’s a mess,” and it’s such a stupid discussion to start right after _that,_ and with his voice raw like that, just a little hoarse from trying to take Richie too deep, and Richie just

fucking

likes him so _goddamn_ much it’s probably going to _kill_ him one of these days.

“I didn’t mean to come without warning you,” he reiterates, like he’s going to be able to redeem himself while Eddie’s busy concerning himself with leaky trash cans. “I just, y’know, you, kinda…”

“You pulled my hair,” Eddie interjects, tilting his head to the side and inadvertently emphasizing the messier side of his hair where Richie’s fingers had twisted and pulled, and he’s just opening his mouth to apologize for _that,_ too, when Eddie says, “I… liked it? It felt good.”

Richie kisses him. Grabs him with one hand in his hair again, and one hand on the back of his neck, and drags him up to stand so Richie can kiss him. And then he keeps going, keeps their lips locked together as he drags Eddie all the way up onto the bed and rolls them over so he’s on his back with Richie on top of him. 

_“Ew,”_ is the first thing Eddie says, breathless, when Richie finally backs off a bit. _“Richie,_ we haven’t brushed our teeth yet, _and_ I just had your dick in my mouth. Why the hell are you kissing me? That’s gross.”

“Not gross,” Richie insists, unable to resist stealing another quick peck while Eddie’s frowning at him like that. “It’s kinda hot. You just had my dick in your mouth, so what? I’m about to have yours in mine. You’re not gonna let me kiss you after?”

“That’s--” Eddie starts, flushing red to his ears. “You don’t have to…”

But Richie _wants_ to, and Richie _will,_ not just because he can feel how hard Eddie is under him and he wants to return the favour, but because he wants to make Eddie feel good _regardless_ of circumstance.

“Think I will anyway,” he says, grinning, and he shifts backwards down the bed until he’s settled between Eddie’s legs and he’s able to pull his pants and underwear down just far enough to expose his dick, standing fully erect already (just from giving Richie a blowjob? Just from having his hair-pulled? _Holy fuck,_ either way). 

Much like Eddie did, Richie gives a few experimental licks before diving in, and Eddie’s right; it isn’t a bad taste. He’s not sure what he expected, anyway. Maybe something bitter, or too salty. But how is he to know? He’s never done this before. It’s not as if there are library books on the matter. It’s not like Richie’s able to gossip about things like this with his friends, the way girls at their high school always did, whispering to each other conspiratorially in the halls and casting lingering looks at the boys they’d been fooling around with, or the ones they hoped for a chance with.

Eddie makes a high noise, a drawn-out whine, when Richie licks from base to tip and then closes his lips around the head to _suck,_ and _motherfucker,_ Richie could do this forever. It rests firm and heavy against his tongue, twitching minutely when he takes it deeper, and Eddie isn’t able to resist the urge to thrust up into the warmth of Richie’s mouth. But Richie’s not experienced with this, and he’s got a gag reflex to worry about, so he does the logical thing and grabs Eddie’s hips in both hands to pin him to the bed, so he _can’t_ thrust into Richie’s mouth and ruin this before Richie can make him come.

Richie bobs his head a few times, the way he’s seen the girls in pornos do, and when he looks up Eddie is propped up on one elbow (his other hand is over his mouth), just _staring_ at him, red all the way under the collar of his pyjama shirt. He can feel Eddie shaking below him, and then he’s saying in a rush, muffled by his fingers, “Shit, Richie, oh my God stop, I’m gonna come, I don’t wanna--”

 _But--_

But Richie wants him to, he thinks crazily, even though this is the first time he’s ever done this, and _Eddie_ did the sensible thing and spat it out. He _wants_ Eddie to come in his mouth, because he wants to know how he tastes and he wants it to feel good for Eddie right up until the end. He doesn’t want to pull off.

So he doesn’t.

He brings his mouth back up to the head and sucks, _hard,_ a few more times, and then Eddie’s upper body is hitting the mattress again and there’s a dulled shout of his name. Under Richie’s fingers, his hips and thighs tense and tremble. Something warm floods his mouth and he thinks, _Holy crap, that’s Eddie’s cum,_ and then, _Holy crap, this is exactly how Eddie felt a couple minutes ago,_ and he doesn’t know if it’s possible to get hard again this fast but his body sure is going to _try,_ apparently.

He pulls off of Eddie’s softening cock and swallows down the cum easily enough, and Eddie _gawks._

“Riche, wha-- Can you _do_ that? Is that safe?”

He probably shouldn’t laugh, which means he does anyway. “Oh, Eddie, where have you been? The chicks in those porn flicks do it all the time, don’t they? Besides, it’s not so bad.” he shrugs, but Eddie’s eyes go even wider, if that’s possible.

“You actually watch _porn?”_

And, well… well, Richie is a borderline-insatiable young adult and he was an altogether insatiable teenager (with a desperate crush he couldn’t do jack shit about, and no one, male or female, was going to fuck him, if he could even bring himself to _try_ with someone else). He knew about the adult channels on the television. In fact, he got into quite some trouble with his _appalled_ mother when the bill came in, even if his dad laughed and laughed while Maggie demanded he back her up. 

_(“He’s a teenage boy, Mags. If I’d had access to that kind of stuff as a teenager, my parents would have gone broke,” Went had said, cheeks stained with tears from his laughter, and Maggie had thrown her hands up in the air and lamented, “I will_ **_never_ ** _understand men!”)_

Richie also knew you could slip a five to the guy with the grey beard at the corner store and he’d open that stash of illicit tapes labelled _ADULTS ONLY_ to let you rent one if you’d like. He never shared that info with the other Losers because he kind of figured they all knew. It was even included in the graffiti in several washroom stalls at school. How could Eddie not know?

Or, maybe he did, and he was too much of a goody-two-shoes to ever do something like _that._ Something that’d make mommy _flip_ if she ever caught him.

So maybe Eddie’s even more innocent than Richie had initially thought, and by extension, even less knowledgeable. 

“Then how’d you know about blowjobs?” he asks, like an idiot, because that’s clearly the most pressing issue here, and not the fact that Eddie’s never been exposed to the strange wonder of adult films.

Eddie’s still flopped back against the pillows, still breathing hard, and somehow redder than ever as he murmurs, “I heard about them around school. From the girls, y’know, Sally Mueller and Greta Bowie and them. They’d talk about it in the halls, or sometimes in the caf. How to do it best. And sometimes I, uh, listened in.”

Richie nods sagely. He’d definitely overheard some of those conversations, himself. His dumb mouth opens up again to ask, “Well, how’d you know you were gay, then?”

_“Richie,”_ Eddie says, chastising, already pouting, “that’s invasive.”

_Also_ **_stupid,_ ** _because if he tells you, then he’s gonna expect you to tell_ **_him,_ ** _and then what? Admit you’ve got a big dumb crush on him and you’re mostly using this as an excuse to get in his pants?_

“I just mean,” Richie continues, because he’s a dumb idiot, “if you’ve never seen any porn, how’d you know you wanted to have gay sex?”

Eddie puts his face in his hands. “Jesus Christ, Rich.”

“It’s a valid question!”

“Did porn make you realize _you_ were gay?”

Richie chokes a little. “Well, uh, not entirely, I guess. Just kinda, helped me figure out the, you know. The semantics. The _deets.”_

“You didn’t learn enough just from the graffiti at Bassey Park?” Eddie asks, half-jokingly, but mostly it makes Richie _sad,_ that _that’s_ the most exposure he’s had to exploring his own sexuality, and how the fuck did he ever figure it out if it was always presented to him so _negatively?_

Of course Richie knows about all that graffiti -- the death threats and the condemnations. He also knows that some people are just gay. People like him just exist in the world and that’s just fine. It doesn’t have to be a big fiasco wherein someone gets nails driven into their eyes or burns in hell for eternity or whatever other nonsense Derry would have them believe.

“You know, gay people can have sex just the same as anyone else, or be in love just the same as anyone else, right?” Richie says, like he’s talking to a kid about how to get out of that cycle of self-loathing, and not his best friend who just blew him. Richie figured out how because he’s _been_ there. He’s still there, sometimes, and he’s still in a position where he isn’t quite prepared to expose himself to the world like that, so quiet arrangements like this are _ideal._

“Richie, I’m just talking about sex. I know all that. I’m talking about how all that stuff about homos getting fucked in the ass is what made me go, ‘Huh, is that so bad, though? That doesn’t sound so bad.’”

Richie chokes on his own goddamn spit and throws his head back, absolutely _howling_ with laughter. He laughs until Eddie’s laughing with him, a little nervous at first, and then full-blown, belly-clutching guffaws, and until Bill or Stan (probably Bill, because Stan is usually awake and ready to start his day by now) starts hitting the wall to remind them to _shut the fuck up._

Richie can barely breathe as he asks, “You’re gonna-- you mean to tell me… the… that the graffiti on the Kissing Bridge is what made you realize you wanted to get fucked up the ass?”

Eddie’s still smiling, stifling giggles, as he gives a half-shrug and says, “I mean, among other things, yeah.” And he says it with such confidence that Richie’s spiralling into gales of laughter again.

“You’re a treat, Mistah K, a real treat,” Richie manages to say in the Voice of Buford Kissdrivel. 

“You’re quite something yourself, Mistah T,” says Eddie, in a near-perfect imitation, and Richie kisses him again just because, and this time Eddie doesn’t complain about dicks or about unbrushed teeth, and just kisses him back.

* * *


	6. A Lesson in Giving Without Taking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie isn’t charmed by his act of miming a blowjob and gesturing upstairs, no matter how much he clasps his hands together pleadingly and gives him puppy eyes (that’s Eddie’s forte, anyway, so he’s pretty much immune to it). So Richie relents with a shrug and fucks off upstairs by himself to shower all on his lonesome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amazing. I like almost none of this chapter. That's a first for this fic.
> 
> But you're getting it anyway because it's been a while since I updated.
> 
> You can [talk to me on tumblr](https://ghostnebula.tumblr.com/) but only if you play nice. Shoutout to my #1 hype man & beta [Ren](https://fuckbitchesgetreddie.tumblr.com/) for making sure my works aren't full of dumb spelling/grammar errors.

* * *

They’re sprawled across the couch in much the same way they used to share the hammock in the underground clubhouse back in Derry, legs tangled together, Richie propped up on his elbows against one armrest, Eddie -- having stolen all the throw pillows -- comfortably draped across the other. 

Bill’s falling asleep with a pen in his hand in the armchair next to them, and Bev’s been sprawled on the floor staring blankly at the television with a sketchpad on her lap for almost thirty minutes now. They’re watching _Jaws._ Richie doesn’t think she’s registered any of it. 

College has a funny way of draining the life out of you, he’s found. 

He’s tired, too. He’s been tired since August. They’ve had their fun, sure, but there’s always stress about something school-related looming in the background, and activities to de-stress are few and far between.

Richie’s found a pretty good one, though, and it’s sitting right across from him, eyes glued to the TV, humming along to _Spanish Ladies._

Richie inches his foot forward where it’s resting between Eddie’s spread legs, but doesn’t garner any reaction -- he’s intensely concentrated on the film. Bill is snoring with his chin resting on his ink-stained hand and Bev is borderline catatonic. 

And Richie Tozier is a man of opportunity.

He presses his foot right up against Eddie’s crotch, applying just enough pressure to really get a _point_ across, and he can _see_ the shock travel up Eddie’s body until it shudders out of him in a gasp. A hand claps over his mouth as he turns to glare at Richie, who only winks at him and begins to rub his foot in little circles.

_Jaws_ was supposed to de-stress him, but it isn’t doing much when something so much better is sitting so close.

(That’s what he tells himself, anyway; it isn’t that Eddie is too cute and Richie just wants to _do things_ to him at every available opportunity, or anything like that.)

Eddie reaches out to smack him on the shin, as if that’ll do anything to deter Richie, who only presses harder against Eddie’s dick and makes his eyes roll back in his head. He hits him again.

_“Fuck you,”_ he hisses from behind his hand, and Richie nods and flashes him a thumbs up, an affirmation, which just makes Eddie go all red in the cheeks. 

It isn’t even that Richie wants much from him. He’s scheduled for a shift in about an hour that he intends to be fashionably late to anyway, so if he flutters his eyelashes the right way now, he can get Eddie’s dick in his mouth and still have time to shower before he has to catch his bus.

Or, if he’s persuasive enough, maybe he can kill two birds with one stone and blow Eddie _in_ the shower.

Of course, Eddie isn’t charmed by his act of miming a blowjob and gesturing upstairs, no matter how much he clasps his hands together pleadingly and gives him puppy eyes (that’s Eddie’s forte, anyway, so he’s pretty much immune to it). So Richie relents with a shrug and fucks off upstairs by himself to shower all on his lonesome. 

Is he surprised when Eddie appears in their bedroom doorway, flushed and pouting and already chastising Richie for being a tease when he knows damn well he’s gotta work soon and there’s no point in them trying to start anything? 

Fuck no, he isn’t. He just kisses the pout away and then blows raspberries on Eddie’s cheeks to get him giggling. “I just wanted to offer my services before I go, Eds. In case you get all lonely without me here to keep you warm.”

“I have the rest of our friends for that, actually,” Eddie says. “And it’s a four hour shift, dingus. If anything, the quiet will be a blessing.”

“Four hours plus commute, Eddie my love. Why, you’ll simply wither away in my absence.” Richie presses his lips to his throat this time and, in true fashion, blows another raspberry, which has Eddie squealing with laughter and smacking him on the shoulder. 

“You’re such a shit.”

“Can I blow you?”

“Do you have _time?_ You’re gonna get fired if you’re late to work so often.”

He sucks at the skin just above Eddie’s collarbone and works his teeth over it, lightly, reveling in the way Eddie tries to suppress a shudder. His fingers dig into Richie’s shoulders where he’s still holding him. “If you care to join me in the shower, I will _make_ time.”

“You make a compelling argument.” Richie’s already ushering him towards the washroom as he adds, “Don’t blame me if you finally do get fired.”

“They’re not gonna fire me. They need my wit and charm to keep that place afloat.”

“So you’ve got nothing going for you and they have no reason to keep you around. Got it,” Eddie says, yanking his shirt off and throwing it right at Richie’s face, doing a shit job of hiding his smirk. “My point stands.”

“You used to be nice.”

“No I did not.”

Richie imagines, briefly, some kind of utopia in which he could do something crazy like _marry_ this asshole, and he’s never wanted to be anywhere so badly in his life. But he’s also painfully aware of the position he’s in, here and now, and how there’s a delicate balance to be maintained, and boundaries that he’s already pushing. Eddie hasn’t expressed any interest in an actual _relationship._ This isn’t _about_ that.

Even in a fucking utopia conjured up in Richie’s brain, Eddie could do so much better. They obviously both know it.

“No, you didn’t.” Richie folds Eddie’s shirt for him, because he’s a _gentleman,_ thank you very much, and also because Eddie will pitch a fit if it gets wrinkled, even if it is just one of Richie’s baggy old band tees that Eddie sometimes uses as pyjamas. “But I still wuv you anyway, Eds!”

“No, fuck you.” Eddie swats his hand away and ducks under his arm when Richie tries to pinch his cheek, leaping, butt-ass-naked, across the cramped bathroom to get away from him, and _still_ Richie is thinking that he would readily and willingly die for this boy. “Get in the damn shower before you _actually_ end up losing your job.”

Richie whistles lowly and winks at him. “Someone’s impatient to get his dick sucked, huh?”

Eddie’s blush blots out his freckles. “If I slip in this shower, I am suing your ass.”

“If you slip while I’m on my knees in front of you, there might not be anything left to sue, so you better hold tight.”

Richie only remembers _after_ he’s stepped into the shower that Eddie likes to keep the water _scalding fucking hot,_ but he’s gonna grin and bear it because he _really fucking likes_ that Eddie is even letting him _have_ this. This… _them_ thing where he actually gets to feel close to him sometimes.

Well, closer than usual. They’re joined at the hip anyway, despite the endless bickering, and Richie wouldn’t have it any other way (unless, of course, that other way included _dates_ with the sex, and _real_ ‘I love you’s and -- who knows -- maybe rings, one day). 

So he takes the skin-melting temperature in stride and helps Eddie squeeze into the teeny tiny shower next to him, and before Eddie can complain yet again about the lack of grips on the bottom of the tub, Richie’s got his tongue down his throat.

Hot water runs off his shoulders as he presses Eddie back into the wall, swallowing the little hiss he lets out when his bare skin touches the cold tile, and honestly, he would be content to just spend the whole day like this, but he’s aware they’re working on a schedule, here, and that schedule involves him keeping his job so he can help pay the bills. He presses one last kiss to Eddie’s lips, leaves him panting, and eases himself onto his knees on the unforgiving surface of the tub, kissing at his torso all the way down. Maybe he realizes a few seconds too late how much this is gonna hurt, but he isn’t doing it for _him._

(Okay, maybe he is.)

He watches to gauge Eddie’s reaction as he presses his lips to the inside of his thigh and sucks, working it between his teeth, but Eddie doesn’t even make an _attempt_ at protesting, instead slapping both hands over his reddened mouth and throwing his head back, muscles tensing. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Rich,” he moans behind his hands.

“What’re you trying to be all quiet for?” Richie asks, pausing to lick over the sizable hickey he left on Eddie’s thigh before moving to the other to do the same. 

“Do you have any idea-- _oh my God_ \-- _any_ idea how much everything echoes in here? You can hear it from the other side of the house. I can hear eh-every word when you sing in the shower, you know.”

Richie removes his mouth from Eddie’s skin with a wet _pop._ “So what? Everyone here is dead to the world right now.”

_“For_ now, I think you mean.”

“Would it really be so bad if Big Bill overheard us and realized I’ve been telling the truth all these years?”

“Which truth would that be?”

“That I’m a fantastic lay, obviously. C’mon, Eds, get with the program.” He grins up at Eddie, and Eddie reflects it back down to him (at least, he’s pretty sure it’s a grin, but Eddie is also very, very blurry right now). Still, he knows they share that nervous twist in their gut about the potential judgment from their friends if their sexualities ever come to light, and Eddie’s right -- it’s better to keep quiet now than face that in the near future.

_They’ll burn that bridge when they get to it,_ indeed. 

“Are you going to actually prove that, or keep running your mouth?”

“Harsh, Eds,” Richie chastises, sinking his teeth lightly into the darkening mark on Eddie’s skin. He _swears_ he can _see_ Eddie’s eyes get darker, and he’d love to play around with that a little more, but he really _does_ have places to be, no matter how badly his dick wants him to pick Eddie apart slowly and revel in the aftermath. 

Besides, Eddie’s already trying to touch himself, and Richie doesn’t want any of that shit, thank you very much. It’s _his_ job to get Eddie off, and all he wants is for Eddie to enjoy it. And also to not fall on him and break his neck. And maybe for them to stay in the shower together after to clean up, because some desperate part of Richie finds that romantic and he’s a selfish bastard if ever he knew one.

“Hey, _ne touche pas,”_ he says, smacking Eddie’s hand away, and Eddie glowers down at him in a way that shouldn’t turn him on more, but he’s got that cute pouty lip going on that Richie’s kind of a sucker for no matter _how_ blind he is without his glasses, so can he really be blamed?

“Then get a fucking move on.”

Richie pulls a face at him and closes his lips over the head of Eddie’s dick with zero warning, which tears a quiet little _“Fuck!”_ out of him that he tries to muffle behind his hand again. The likelihood of them being overheard is slim, but Richie’s not going to complain, especially not when that would require not having Eddie’s dick in his mouth anymore. 

Not wanting to deal with the very real risk of accident or injury (Eddie’s right, shower sex is dangerous business, not that he’s planning to admit it out loud), he grips Eddie’s hips firmly in both hands and presses him harder against the shower wall. 

Eddie swears again, louder, and there’s an audible _thunk_ as his head collides with the wall, though it doesn’t seem to faze him. Richie spends a good while just licking and sucking at the head while Eddie tries (and fails) to keep quiet, until his legs are trembling on either side of Richie and making him grateful he had the foresight to hold him up against the wall like this. A smile _almost_ curls up the corners of his lips, but Eddie’s, “Ow fuck, Richie, watch your teeth,” hissed from behind his fingers, stops him.

He pulls off only long enough to lick a slow stripe along the underside -- watching as Eddie’s knuckles go white, clamped over his own face, still attempting to silence himself -- before taking the whole thing into the back of his throat. Or, as far as he dares go when he’s got a gag reflex to worry about. 

Just _seeing_ Eddie’s reactions, the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the quivering in his thighs, is enough to get Richie going. If he wasn’t turned on already, he sure the fuck would be now. And the choked little whimpers and moans that are echoing in the small space aren’t exactly hurting things.

It’s probably fucking _dangerous_ how much he likes Eddie, because even if this is his first time doing any of these things, he’s _positive_ no one is ever going to make him feel the way Eddie does. 

Or maybe that’s the rose-coloured glasses talking. 

Regardless of how high the pedestal Richie’s put Eddie on reaches, he’s rock-hard just from _giving him a blowjob,_ and can’t resist the urge to reach down and touch himself as he bobs his head over Eddie’s cock, digging the fingers of his other hand more forcefully into the soft meat of Eddie’s hip to keep him upright, just in case. His cock twitches in his mouth, and the heel of Eddie’s hand collides with his forehead, _hard,_ forcing his head back and _off,_ which is a lot more disappointing than it should be. 

_Especially_ when Eddie’s already coming as he pushes Richie away, and Richie just has to watch his semen swirl down the drain. Eddie _does_ go pretty much limp in his grip, gasping out a, “Holy fuck Richie,” as his little fingers clamp down on the arm Richie’s still supporting him with. 

And there, just like that, kneeling on the uncomfortable surface of the tub, putting more effort into keeping Eddie upright than Eddie _himself_ is, with his dainty little hands that definitely _shouldn’t_ belong to a mechanic (or mechanic apprentice, to be precise) squeezing at him, and a dribble of his cum clinging to his chin, Richie feels himself tip over the edge. The hand he’s got wrapped around his cock stutters in its pace and then he’s coming, too, forehead pressing to Eddie’s thigh. The urge to leave more marks there slams into him without warning when he opens his eyes again to the smooth expanse of skin, unblemished save the hickey he left there himself.

Another time, though, he tells himself, breathing heavily through his mouth as he tips back to look at Eddie again. He’s staring down at him with something close to disappointment. 

“You didn’t have to jerk yourself off, Rich. I could’ve--”

“I know,” Richie waves a hand dismissively. “But we don’t have time. I’ve gotta rush anyway.”

Eddie frowns at him for a moment, even as Richie drags himself back to his feet and Eddie reaches out to help him despite lacking any balance himself. “Why’d you offer to blow me, then? If you knew I couldn’t, y’know… reciprocate?”

Richie shrugs, sliding his hands under Eddie’s elbows to help guide him back under the spray of water. “I just wanted to.”

“That’s not fair to you.”

“I don’t care what’s _fair._ I just wanted to make you feel good. Did it work?”

“Uh,” says Eddie, red-faced. “I mean, yeah? Duh?”

“Good.” Richie can’t resist smacking a wet kiss to his forehead. “It felt good for me, too, you know.”

And Eddie can’t argue with that -- Richie _knows_ he can’t, because Eddie likes giving head just as much as he likes receiving it, so _of course_ he understands where Richie’s coming from. Eddie laughs a little, scrunching up his nose, and catches Richie around the back of the neck to drag him down and plant an equally-wet, even-louder kiss on his cheek. “You’re…” he starts, still holding Richie down at his eye level, a smile stretching across his face. “You’re my best friend,” he finishes, unbearably soft, and Richie would be a fool if he didn’t kiss him properly then.

“I seriously gotta clean up. I’m playing with fire, here,” Richie reminds him after spending far too long with his tongue in Eddie’s mouth. Already the water is starting to turn cold. 

And sure, the shower is tiny and cramped and impossible to move in as it is, let alone with an extra person in the way, but Richie wouldn’t dream of trading this for convenience or efficiency. Not even when Eddie offers to get out of his way and just shower later. 

No -- he makes himself even _more_ late work by bothering Eddie the whole time they’re in the shower together, loudly singing ABBA songs that he can’t remember all the lyrics to and trying to make the soap bar fly out of his hand when he squeezes it (he succeeds, after several attempts, and it goes right up and out of the shower, landing with a sharp _clunk_ on the tile floor of the bathroom). 

“You know,” he says while Eddie’s rinsing the shampoo from his hair. “I don’t care if you come in my mouth. I know you have a… _thing,_ about that. But I really don’t mind.”

Eddie pries one eye open to give him a quick, exasperated look, and sighs. “I don’t have a _thing._ I just think that’s weird.”

“Well, it hasn’t killed anyone yet, Eds. I promise it won’t hurt me.”

“I didn’t say it would _hurt_ you. It’s just weird. It’s like…” And here he pauses to push his wet hair back from his forehead and rub the water out of his eyes. “It just seems unsanitary. Like, it’s a bodily fluid, just the same as any other. I don’t wanna compare it to pee, but like, _seriously--”_

Richie cuts him off with a sharp burst of laughter that echoes raucously in the room. “Spit’s a bodily fluid, too, Eds. Does that mean I’m not allowed to kiss you anymore?”

Indignance burns in Eddie’s dark eyes and he plants his hands on his hips, holding his ground and blocking Richie from getting to the showerhead to rinse the shampoo from his own hair. “It’s not the same, asshole. You know what I mean.”

“Okay. Hey,” Richie cups a hand under Eddie’s elbow again and brings the other to his cheek, “I’m just messing with you. I get you. We’ll figure it out, however you want to. We can even use condoms if we need. Alright?”

“You can do that?” Eddie asks, blinking owlishly up at him, and Richie doesn’t know when Eddie decided he had all the answers, but he most assuredly does _not._

He shrugs. “Got me. I don’t see why not.”

“Wouldn’t that be, like… a choking hazard?” Eddie asks, because of _course_ that’s what he thinks of. Richie feels so much affection for him swelling up inside his chest he’s afraid it’ll suffocate him, until it comes out as a low laugh and an urgent need to kiss him again.

* * *


	7. A Test on Getting What You Want, How You Want It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Are you _sure_ this is okay?"  
> 
> 
> “Yes, Richie, _Jesus._ It just… it just feels kind of weird, but I want you to keep going, _please,”_ he says, which is probably a mistake, but he certainly doesn’t realize that. Not yet.  
> 
> 
> Richie likes the way _“please”_ sounds coming out of him. Likes it a lot.  
> 
> 
> Probably too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to [Autumn](https://pinkmedusa6.tumblr.com/) for being a diligent and fantastic beta for this chapter!

* * *

“Oh my God.” Eddie’s hand, trapped in the sleeve of the hoodie he’s still wearing, slaps over his own mouth to muffle the noises he’s making as Richie strokes him slowly. He’s working lube over his hole, just with his fingertips. He hasn’t pushed in yet, a little bit because Eddie keeps getting all tense and a little bit because his heart his hammering and he can’t stop thinking  _ this is it, this is it; there’s no turning back after this, _ as if there had been any chance of “turning back” after that first kiss.

He’s aware of how completely fucked he is, thank you very much. And at this point, if all he’s going to get out of it is some awkward sex with his best friend, turned childhood crush, turned first love, then so be it. 

Richie Tozier  _ never _ said he wasn’t selfish.

Eddie whimpers, a high vibration in his chest, as the tip of Richie’s middle finger breaches his entrance, just barely. He’s wearing a disposable glove because Eddie  _ insisted, _ and even went out of his way to buy some yesterday. Since apparently  _ this, _ more than anything else they’ve been doing lately, is too unsanitary for him to get over. “Are you  _ sure _ no one else is home?” he asks for the hundredth time, breathless and flushed, lifting his hand just momentarily from his mouth so Richie can hear him. 

“Positive. You want me to go stand in the hallway and yell ‘penis’ and see if anyone tells me to shut up? I am  _ more _ than willing--”

“No, please don’t.”

“Can you talk to me, then? I need to know if you’re feeling okay with this whole thing.” Richie’s stopped altogether by this point, holding still as he gauges Eddie’s reaction to the intrusion.

“Yeah, it’s fine, I  _ want _ to,” Eddie reminds him, with too much sass for his little body.

Richie just grins at that. It doesn’t completely relax him, because this is a  _ lot _ to handle, considering how much of his life he’s spent fantasizing about this moment (and others like it). But it’s reassuring to hear Eddie give his consent openly like this. Makes him feel a little bit less like a depraved monster taking advantage of the situation -- this is mutually beneficial, even if Richie’s benefit is  _ “finally fulfilling all those nasty fucking daydreams you’ve always had about your friend, who remains completely oblivious, somehow, to the fact that you want to fuck him and you want it to  _ mean _ something.” _

Yeah, just normal best friend stuff.

“Good. Now tell me how you  _ feel. _ Is this alright?” His finger circles Eddie’s entrance again and he nods, lips pressing together so hard they almost turn white. “You sure?”

“Yeah.”

Richie presses in just a tiny bit deeper, watching his face unblinkingly, trying to figure out the effect he’s having. “Have you ever done this to yourself?” he asks, innocently enough  _ (not _ because he’s trying to imagine how that would look, obviously, or what Eddie would sound like, or whose name might fall from his lips the first time he touched his own prostate). 

Eddie shakes his head. Richie presses forward again, moving his finger in tiny circles, trying to work the tension out of him.

“Are you  _ sure _ this is okay?” Richie asks  _ again. _ If it were up to him he’d pin Eddie down and just make him take his fingers (and more) no matter how much he bitched or whined. But he’s also trying  _ really fucking hard _ not to scare Eddie away, so he’s going to have to keep it slow and gentle. Ease him into it. Maybe, if Eddie keeps him around long enough, they’ll figure things out and he can be a little bit more aggressive one day. Maybe Eddie would even  _ like _ it. Richie dares to hope Eddie might like it.

“Yes, Richie,  _ Jesus. _ It just… it just feels kind of weird, but I want you to keep going,  _ please,” _ he says, which is probably a mistake, but he certainly doesn’t realize that. Not yet. 

Richie likes the way  _ “please” _ sounds coming out of him. Likes it a lot.

Probably too much.

It prickles up his spine and out through his limbs and makes him want, so badly, to hear it again (and again and again and again until he’s satisfied). 

He withdraws his finger, then slides it back in, still slow, but much faster than he’d initially gone, and while Eddie’s gasping at the feeling he says, “You’ve never even  _ tried _ this? You’re gay, but you’ve never been even a little bit curious? Thought you said you didn’t think taking it up the ass sounded so bad. Thought you said it sounded kinda nice.” A quiet laugh spills over his lips. He feels almost high on the soft sounds Eddie keeps trying to hide. On the power Eddie has afforded him in this situation. On the trust he’s placed in him. “But you couldn’t be bothered to give it a try? No wonder you needed my help so bad.”

“I-I--” Eddie sucks in a shuddering breath. “I did try. Once. It felt too weird and I was so scared of getting caught, and… and I didn’t have lube, and my spit wasn’t working right, so I just didn’t try again,” he says, too fast. Like if he pauses for air he’ll chicken out and won’t finish the thought. 

“Really? Where did you try it?” Richie’s just rolling his finger idly around inside him now, half-searching, mostly just working him open. He grins like that’s the greatest news he’s ever heard.

Eddie scowls, opens his mouth as his eyebrows furrow like he’s going to chastise Richie for asking something so personal -- as if they aren’t  _ well _ past that -- but instead his whole body goes taut for a split second. He makes quite possibly the  _ sexiest _ noise Richie has ever heard, feral and high-pitched, as Richie’s finger rubs over his prostate. His head slams against the pillows as his back arches. On either side of Richie, his legs seize up, visibly shaking.

“Richie, holy fuck. Do that again,” he whispers after the moment has passed, lifting his head so Richie can see that his pupils are blown. A blush sits high on his cheeks, making some of the freckles spattered across his face  _ pop, _ standing out against the warm pink tone. He’s the prettiest goddamn thing Richie’s ever seen, and he’d be a  _ damn fool _ not to make that pretty face beg.

“Tell me where you were the first time you tried fingering yourself.”

_ “Richie,” _ Eddie whines, already pouting, already gearing up to tell him  _ no, _ to tell him  _ that’s not your business, _ but Richie’s got the upper hand, here. He starts withdrawing his finger, watching the horror of realization dawning on Eddie’s (pretty) face, and repeats his question just one more time.

“At--at home!” he cries, rocking his hips down in an attempt to keep Richie’s finger inside of him, but it’s too late. A dejected little noise escapes him. Some of the haze is clearing from his eyes.

Richie can’t have  _ that. _ “Home?” he prompts, making sure his index finger is generously coated in lube before sliding both between Eddie’s legs and working around the pucker of his hole again.

Eddie watches as though mesmerized. “Derry,” he elaborates. “At home in Derry. In my bedroom.”

“Was your mom home?”

_ “Richie!” _

He starts pulling his hand away and Eddie’s bright red  _ all over; _ the flush is beginning to crawl down his throat now. But Richie’s threats of stopping are enough incentive to keep him talking no matter  _ how _ humiliated he is. “Yes, okay, she was, she was home, Richie, please…”

“Good kitten,” he praises, sliding two fingers inside of Eddie as he presses a kiss to his burning cheek. Eddie goes lax under him just like that, like he’s applying some kind of soothing balm. Richie’s probably going to tear the zipper of his pants if he doesn’t relieve some of the mounting pressure in there soon. It’s  _ literally _ not fair how hot Eddie is, no matter what he does. “Did you think about her catching you? Did you  _ want _ her to?”

“No -- what the hell,  _ no.” _

“What would you have told her if she did? If she’d walked in on you trying to fit a finger into this tight little ass of yours?”

Whatever Eddie says in response to that isn’t actually  _ words, _ but it sure sounds like an attempt. Like a deeply humiliated  _ attempt. _ His erection hasn’t flagged at all, though, so Richie leans in  _ real close, _ until his lips rest against his ear, and eggs him on. “How would you have explained away  _ that _ behaviour, hm? I’m sure you had a plan. You wouldn’t go into something like  _ that _ without a good lie ready to go, something to cover with, right?”

“I don’t wanna talk about--” Eddie starts to say, then thinks better of it when Richie’s fingers still where they’re creeping deeper into him. “I would have told her I was doing a prostate exam, ‘cause we learned in health class you have to do them to make sure you aren’t getting cancer. I would have pretended I didn’t know you had to have a doctor do them, and not until you were older.”

A riptide of giddiness sears through Richie and he licks the shell of Eddie’s ear before drawing away. He fights back a laugh, but Eddie’s already plenty embarrassed anyway. “A prostate exam, huh? Good excuse. Bet it would have felt good, too. Bet it would have felt just like this,” he croons, as he digs both fingers right into that same spot as before, applying not-so-gentle pressure to Eddie’s prostate. It incites much the same reaction, except this time the noise is more like a  _ scream. _ One of his hands shoots up to grab at Richie’s chest, tearing claw marks down his abdomen as he struggles to find purchase. The other one goes straight down to take hold of his dick. Richie pushes it away. “That feel good, kitten?”

Eddie nods, eyes rolling back as Richie just continues to abuse that same spot. His knees are digging into Richie’s sides, squeezing closer with each passing second. His stomach is on display where Richie shoved the sweater up to his chest so it wouldn’t get dirty (he  _ is _ capable of thinking ahead sometimes). Richie can see the muscles in his abdomen rolling and contracting as pleasure surges through him. A fat bead of precum dribbles down the side of his cock and onto Richie’s fingers.

“Good, good, because I have another question for you.” Eddie looks like he’s going to fucking  _ kill _ him for a split second, as Richie stops fingering him again. But when he starts working a third finger in, the murderous intent fades away. “Who were you thinking of?” he asks, watching the flush on his chest creep lower, beneath the collar of Richie’s hoodie. “Who would you have imagined fucking you, if you’d managed to do this yourself?”

Eddie already knows better than to resist the question. He pouts up at him again, eyes dark, and Richie can’t help but lean in and press a quick kiss to those soft lips. “Who was it? James Dean? Anthony Perkins? River Phoenix? Or were you thinking closer to home, like maybe someone you  _ knew.” _ He immediately regrets asking that, because if Eddie were to agree with him (were to name any names) that would be it -- he’d probably end up despising them. Not because he’s  _ trying  _ to be an asshole, but because he can’t fucking help it. There hasn’t been a moment in  _ years _ where Richie hasn’t looked at Eddie and thought,  **‘** **_Mine.’_ **

But he wonders, if given the opportunity, would Eddie  _ actually _ confess to something as dirty as jerking it to the thought of one of his  _ own friends? _ Something Richie does on the regular, sure, and has been doing since he first figured out how to get his dick hard, but Eddie is a goddamn peach. He’s too sweet for filthy things like that. 

Right? 

Richie almost dares to wish he  _ wasn’t _ \-- almost wishes he did  _ just that, _ conjuring up images of the one and only Richie Tozier doing things just like  _ this _ to him; like  _ Eddie’s _ the one whose fantasies are being fulfilled, here. “What name were you going to scream when you came on your own fingers?”

Eddie’s  _ whining, _ sharp nails still scratching over Richie’s chest as he rolls his hips to force Richie’s fingers into his prostate again. But Richie just takes his free hand and pins Eddie’s hips to the bed, just like that, way too fucking easy. He looks so goddamn tiny under the span of Richie’s hand. “You’re gonna tell me, kitten. Was it lots of people? Was it someone you’re ashamed to have thought about?”

Eddie shakes his head, eyes squeezing shut. There are traces of tears glistening on his eyelashes as he says,  _ “Richie, please, please,” _ as if that’s going to get him what he wants right now. 

(It sure is  _ exactly _ what  _ Richie _ wants to hear, and he wishes he could draw this out forever but  _ he has to ease him into it, has to ease them both into it.) _

“You’re going to tell me,” he repeats, leaning his weight onto the hand that’s pinning Eddie down, gripping hard enough to (hopefully) bruise. 

A tear _actually_ runs down Eddie’s cheek, and he knows he _should_ feel bad about that (he doesn’t). He’s just considering relenting, but then Eddie whispers, eyes still shut, cheeks as red as ever, “Just _people._ _Men._ Celebrities and stuff. Like-- like John Stamos. Um, the models in the magazines from my mom’s room.”

For as much as he was hoping the answer would be “you,” that’s an equally  _ fantastic _ response. He kisses Eddie again for it. “Good kitten. Want me to make you feel good now?”

Eddie nods, eyes glistening, and the feeling of power, of  _ control, _ overwhelms him.  _ He did that. _ Eddie’s a teary-eyed, blushing, begging, pliant  _ mess _ because of him. There’s no fucking way he’s going to be able to handle another  _ second _ of his dick straining against his jeans like this. He fumbles to get the zipper undone with one hand and actually  _ sighs _ at the release of pressure, rubbing a hand over himself quickly before getting back to the task at hand. Which is to grab  _ Eddie’s _ dick instead and stroke him while he toys with his prostate again.

It’s such a delicious feeling, to pull him apart on his fingers like this. To know he’s the reason Eddie’s panting and moaning, thrusting up into his touch, and then--

And then Eddie takes hold of his wrist, holding the hand that’s penetrating him in place. For one horrifying moment Richie thinks he’s done something wrong and he’s going to make him  _ stop. _ Instead he starts rocking down onto his fingers, at a much more rapid pace than the teasing, borderline-torturous one Richie had been going at. He  _ keens, _ even as Richie’s hand on his dick slows to a stop -- he’s too busy gaping at Eddie to focus on  _ that. _

Because somehow Eddie manages to  _ surprise _ him by being the  _ hottest fucking thing _ he’s ever seen in his  _ life, _ despite that being old fucking news. 

Jesus, God, Maturin -- whatever’s out there, please grant him the  _ strength… _

Eddie’s other hand closes over his where it’s wrapped around his dick and encourages him to start moving again. Within seconds he can feel Eddie’s muscles tense (feel it  _ around his fingers) _ as he blows his load, mouth falling open around a silent cry, eyes pinched shut.

Eddie, despite being as clumsy as usual after an orgasm, limbs not quite cooperating with his demands, is the first to take action in the moments following. He helps ease Richie’s fingers out of his hole and rocks himself up onto his knees just long enough to plant his hands against Richie’s chest, pushing him down onto the bed.

Richie goes willingly, still a little fried in the brain from watching Eddie  _ like that, _ but he snaps back to reality when he feels Eddie’s tongue on his dick. “Wait, Eds, I-- hold on. I’m not wearing a condom. Lemme--”

“It’s fine,” Eddie says, drawing his tongue back into his mouth, leaving Richie’s cock glistening with his spit. “I wanna… I mean, I don’t want you to come in my mouth or anything.  _ Yet. _ But maybe just… I dunno. On me? So it’s not as gross.”

Richie’s pretty sure the wind is knocked out of him just  _ hearing _ that, and then he’s  _ suffocating, _ for sure, when Eddie gets right back to putting his soft little tongue all over him. “You mean like,” Richie says dumbly, breathlessly, gaping down at him, “like, on your face? Is that okay?”

Eddie shrugs and gives an assenting hum with his lips wrapped around the head, which has all the muscles in Richie’s abdomen going taut, forcing a string of vulgar language from his mouth. He’s a lot better at keeping himself under control now than he was a few weeks ago, sure. But he’s still a human being, and that feels really fucking good, so he has to tear off the glove and toss it in the general direction of the trash can to free his hands before pushing Eddie off and taking a deep breath, which earns him a cute little pout.

“You’re allowed to come, you know,” Eddie says dryly, licking his own spit off his lips. 

“Yeah, obviously I know that. I’m trying to last more than thirty seconds, is all.”

“It would just be a testament to how good I am at this, though.” Eddie’s grinning at him, the kind of annoying look that usually belongs to Richie. Richie flicks him gently on the nose. 

It would actually be a testament to just how fucking attracted Richie is to him, but he doubts Eddie wants to hear that. He keeps his mouth shut while Eddie dips his head back down and tries to take Richie as deep as he can, one hand coming up to toy almost shyly with his balls.

Richie must have inhaled fucking helium or some shit, because the sound he makes when the head touches the back of Eddie’s throat and  _ then some, _ as he fucking  _ swallows around him, _ is probably only audible to dogs. Eddie pulls off to breathe, and Richie thinks to tell him that he’s going to be the absolute goddamn  _ death of him. _ He doesn’t get a chance, because Eddie just sinks right back down to do it again, taking Richie impossibly deep into the heat of his mouth. He remembers as his hand is twisting into his disastrous mop of hair that Eddie actually  _ likes _ it when Richie pulls his hair, so he does just that, and when Eddie inevitably moans around his cock it sends him catapulting over the edge. 

He says… something, he’s sure of it, as he yanks Eddie’s head back just in time to come across his pink cheeks. Something unintelligible that involves a lot of swearing, for sure. It feels like he comes for a full minute, hips twitching involuntarily upwards even as he tries to resist it. Eddie’s little hand wrapped around his cock really isn’t helping his case. 

A glob of cum drips off his chin while Richie stares, slack-jawed. There’s a stir of arousal in his gut like it would even be fucking  _ possible _ for him to get hard again that fast. “Jesus fucking Christ, Eds,” he says, letting his head flop back against the mattress while he struggles to catch his breath.

“Was that okay?” Eddie asks, entirely sincere, like he wasn’t just acting like a cocky little shit two minutes ago. The way his voice rasps sends Richie’s heart into overdrive because--  _ fuck, _ he  _ did that. _

_ He  _ made Eddie sound like that.

He tries to suppress the shudder that rolls through him as he forces that thought aside, propping himself up on his elbows to look at Eddie again.

Eddie, who’s got Richie’s cum smeared across his face, his little pink tongue darting out to taste it on his lips. His eyes go wide as he catches Richie watching, back straightening like he thinks he’s gonna get in trouble or something. Richie tries to hide a laugh, just like he tries to hide how much that small action gets to him. He might have great stamina, but it isn’t  _ that _ great, and besides, that really shouldn’t turn him on nearly as much as it does.

“You wanna clean that up?” Richie asks before he can say anything. Eddie nods slowly, hands folded in his lap all prim and proper, because he’s stupidly fucking cute like that. Like his singular goal in life is to just drive Richie up the fucking wall by  _ existing. _

It’s working.

Richie says another quick prayer for his sanity as he stands and pulls his boxers back on, sending it off to whoever will listen. Clearly, no one does, and he’s in this mess all on his own. He’s strangely okay with that, because at least “this mess” results in him getting to fuck Eddie. Eventually. Hopefully. 

He’s willing to do this however Eddie wants, if he’s being honest, but it seems like Eddie  _ wants _ to get fucked, and that just…

Well, that just drives Richie absolutely fucking crazy, is what it does, but in the best way possible.

“Stay here. I’ll go get a cloth or something,” he says, when Eddie makes to follow him. 

Not as if they’ll run into anyone in the hall who will be able to bear witness to the (immaculate) disaster that Eddie is right now. But they’ve got carpeted floors to worry about, and Eddie gets all weak and noodly after coming, like all the strength has been drained out of his body. It’ll just be easier if Richie runs to the washroom quick instead of having to support his weight the whole way.

At least, that’s what he tells himself, because the alternative is acknowledging that he wants,  _ desperately, _ to prove to Eddie that he can take care of him. As if that’ll convince him to love him back or some stupid shit like that.

When Richie comes back with a wet cloth to clean his face with, Eddie tips his head back and  _ lets him. _ It’s oddly touching. Eddie doesn’t often trust this kind of thing to other people, and especially not “complete slobs” like Richie (a common, and warranted, accusation). But Eddie just lets Richie cup the back of his head and clean the cum off his face, and then some of the mess on his thighs. When he asks him if he wants to take a nap, Eddie nods and allows himself to be led across the room to Richie’s bed. 

“You got cum on your sweater,” Eddie points out drowsily.

Richie grabs the bottom edge and pulls at the fabric to examine it. Some of his jizz dripped off Eddie’s face and onto the front of the sweater, staining the Nirvana logo. There are several smaller stains dotted along the hem.  _ “We _ got cum on my sweater. Nice try. You can’t pin all the blame on me.”

Eddie smiles at him and Richie’s heart seizes. “Fine,  _ we _ got cum on your sweater. It needs to go in the wash,” he says, sticking his tongue out at him and lifting his arms above his head. Richie follows the motion without further prompting and helps him pull the hoodie off. He tosses it on the floor to be dealt with later, as he does with most of his laundry.

Richie figures he’ll keep up the momentum. He helps Eddie into a pair of pyjama pants and one of his other band shirts; a ratty Nine Inch Nails tee from a concert he dragged the other Losers to a few years ago. Richie’s still only wearing his underwear, but he knows Eddie doesn’t give a fuck about it at this point, so he climbs right in beside him and turns on the TV.

  
  
  


When he wakes up, Eddie’s sitting propped against the headboard with a textbook balanced on his knee, Richie’s arm around his waist trapping him in place. The TV is still on, but the volume’s been turned down low enough to keep it from disturbing Richie’s sleep. While he never intended to fall asleep in the first place, he’s grateful for it.

“You awake?” Eddie whispers, glancing down at him as he stirs under the blankets.

Richie hums something that might be an affirmative. He presses a kiss to Eddie’s hip where his shirt is riding up and gets a sweet little giggle and the tip of a pen bopping his nose in return.

“We’re ordering takeout from that Chinese place you like so much. I told Bill to get you an extra order of the fried noodles.”

“God, whatever would I do without you, Eds?” Richie asks dramatically, smiling against Eddie’s skin.

“Well, for starters, you’d never get all your extra food, you absolute fucking sasquatch,” Eddie teases, and Richie has to throw his head back to laugh. “You’d also be a virgin forever, so you’re welcome for that, too.”

Richie pinches at his belly, but mostly he just catches the fabric of the shirt between his fingers. “That’s  _ so _ rude! I would  _ not _ be a virgin forever!” Eddie’s already opening his mouth to make some witty retort but Richie beats him to it. “Just until I was, like, forty.  _ Maybe _ fifty.”

When Eddie laughs, he shakes against Richie, where the two of them are all squished against each other. Richie’s arm wraps a little tighter around him before he can think better of it. 

_ “Eventually _ I’d find someone willing to get with this,” Richie insists.

“You’re so ridiculous,” Eddie huffs, swatting playfully at his shoulder, and it’s all Richie can do to smile up at him.

* * *


	8. How (Not) to Introduce Your Daddy Kink to the Situation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If the door were unlocked, any one of them could walk in here and catch them like this, and the thought makes a sharp, possessive thrill shoot down Richie’s spine. 
> 
> Maybe he’d like to use it as an excuse to pretend he _is_ dating Eddie, like he wants so fucking bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the chapter title suggests, this is where the kink exploration (tentatively) begins. 
> 
> Thanks to [fuckbitchesgetreddie](https://fuckbitchesgetreddie.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr for helping beta this chapter! <3
> 
> You're also welcome to come hang out on [my Tumblr](https://ghostnebula.tumblr.com/) and clog up my inbox more than it... already... is...

* * *

Eddie Kaspbrak has discovered the joys of having a prostate, and he’s become an insatiable little demon.

Richie has no complaints. None at all. Seeing Eddie so enthusiastic to get Richie’s fingers in him is better than being high, honestly. His debilitating infatuation with Eddie is only fueled by this strange situation where it _seems_ like Eddie might reciprocate.

He’s not dumb enough to believe that’s true, but it’s nice to pretend.

Eddie’s yanking him down by the collar of his shirt before their bedroom door even closes. The bags they’re carrying all tumble to the floor as he tries to climb Richie like a fucking tree, tongue scraping past Richie’s canines.

Richie has _no_ complaints.

But he also knows Eddie well enough to step back for a second and assess.

“Wait.” Eddie struggles against him briefly when Richie grips him by the upper arms to hold him back. “We’re not leaving this crap all over the floor. I _know_ you aren’t gonna want to clean it up after.”

Eddie makes to protest, then thinks better of it, staring dejectedly down at the assortment of bags from their mall trip. “Fine. You’re right.”

“I always am.” Richie shoots him a wink and Eddie’s hand flashes out to jab playfully at his stomach. 

“That is the least true thing I think you’ve ever said.”

“Sorry, I can’t hear you over the sound of me being right all the time,” Richie says as he bends down to start sorting through their haul. 

They’ve spent most of their day trying to get their Christmas shopping done, and Richie regrets every purchase as he has to take the time to put it all away before he can get to the actual fun stuff. 

But he _is_ right. Eddie _will_ get all pissy about them leaving a mess on the floor once he realizes he doesn’t want to clean it up. He never really wants to do much of anything after they mess around. He tends to get all muscle-weak and drowsy after. 

Then it’ll be, _“Richie, I don’t wanna get up, you deal with it.”_

The gifts will become a permanent fixture on the floor if they don’t deal with this now.

There’s something to be said, though, about anticipation. They try to make quick work of sorting everything out and finding safe storage (and good hiding places) for it all in the closet and cabinets, and the whole time all Richie can think about is getting his hands on Eddie. _In_ Eddie.

There’s so much more he wants to do with him, so many things they haven’t explored. There are things they don’t even _know_ about, which is even more exciting. And Richie doesn’t expect them to have _forever_ to explore those things, so he’s more than a little eager to push Eddie onto his bed and climb over him once they’re satisfied with their work. 

Eddie is already pressing the lube and a glove into his hands, so he doesn’t waste a moment in getting his fingers in Eddie’s hole and Eddie’s dick in his mouth.

“Richie, _Richie,_ oh my God--” Eddie whimpers, the most alluring sound Richie’s ever heard in his goddamn _life,_ as he works a third finger inside him and drags his tongue slowly over Eddie’s shaft, hollowing his cheeks as he sucks. Eddie seems torn between thrusting up into Richie’s mouth and grinding down on his fingers, so his hips just stutter noncommittally while his nails dig into Richie’s scalp. 

Richie hooks his fingers up against Eddie’s prostate and Eddie bites down into the soft meat of his hand to dampen the desperate little noise he makes. More precum mixes with Richie’s saliva and drips down his chin and he’s so stupidly horny for this boy that he could honestly blow his load just doing _this,_ he thinks. He very pointedly does not touch himself because he’s certain he actually _would._

Besides, there’s something he’s been meaning to do for a while now, and it just doesn’t work if he’s already soft.

It takes a lot of willpower to keep his free hand off his dick, but he occupies himself well enough with Eddie’s balls, and he could swear Eddie’s going to make himself bleed, biting into his skin to keep quiet the way he is.

He can _hear_ the other Losers moving around in the house. Muffled voices from the rooms down the hall. The tap running in the washroom. The radio playing downstairs. If the door were unlocked, any one of them could walk in here and catch them like this, and the thought makes a sharp, possessive thrill shoot down Richie’s spine. 

Maybe he’d like to use it as an excuse to pretend he _is_ dating Eddie, like he wants so fucking bad.

Maybe he wishes Eddie would let himself be _loud,_ let their friends hear him, so they can make their own inferences about the nature of their relationship.

He knows, somewhere in his addled mind, that most of his brain power has been redirected to his crotch, and that if he were thinking logically he’d lend a little more effort to worrying about what some of them might _think_ about the fact that they’re both boys. But he knows, equally, that Losers stick together, and it’s unlikely any of them would turn their backs on their sworn best friends for life, not over something as trivial as sexuality.

Or at least, he can hope.

But right now, the horny and stupid parts of his mind want to rip Eddie’s hand out of his mouth so everyone nearby can _hear._ Hear the way he moans Richie’s name and the sweet little way he begs, and the stuttering gasp when he comes, flooding Richie’s mouth. 

He keeps sucking his dick and abusing his prostate even as he’s going soft, until Eddie’s trying to push him away, shivering from overstimulation.

Richie tosses the glove (missing the trash bin by a longshot), but he doesn’t bother to wipe the cum off his lips and chin before yanking Eddie’s bruised hand from between his teeth and diving in to kiss him. And Eddie doesn’t complain, because Richie’s made it his goal in life to desensitize him to the _gross_ parts of sex that send his little anxious hypochondriac brain into overdrive. 

Eddie’s still panting and gasping into his mouth while Richie twists their tongues together, his feeble fingers grabbing at his hair and his shoulders to keep him close. “God, I--” he tries when Richie pauses for air, but he’s cut off by Richie’s tongue again. 

Richie takes pity on him long enough to let him speak through swollen lips. 

“Do you want me to suck you off, too? Or-- or finger you? Can I-- What do you want me to do?” His shaking hand closes around Richie’s hard, leaking cock to stroke him tentatively.

“Can I try something?” Richie asks without really going into specifics, and Eddie just nods at him. His heart swells so big he worries it might burst out of his chest, knowing Eddie trusts him enough to just go along with whatever the hell he wants. “Can you, uh… can you lay on your side and, um, press your legs together?”

Eddie nods again and rolls obediently into the position Richie wants him in, glancing over his shoulder for confirmation that he’s doing it right. Richie smiles at him, hopefully reassuring, his heart pounding. 

“Is it… is it okay if I just… if I, like, fuck your thighs? _Not--_ not go all the way or anything. I mean literally just… just your thighs.” He presses a finger into the tight space between Eddie’s legs, just below his perineum, to get the point across. His face is so red it’s _burning,_ and he doesn’t know why the fuck he’s so worried or nervous about _this,_ of all things, except maybe that… it _is_ as close to actually fucking as they’ve ever gotten, and he’s still got this notion in his head that Eddie might panic and tap out the closer they get to the end goal. 

But Eddie doesn’t deny him this. Not anywhere close. He moans tremulously, face turned away from Richie again, and says, “Yes, holy shit, _yes. Please.”_

Richie feels like his head is full of fucking helium as he smears lube on the inside of Eddie’s thighs and over his own neglected cock, lying down to spoon Eddie and throwing his glasses somewhere on the table by the foot of his bed. He lets out a shaking breath as he slowly pushes between the soft skin, and he’s once again _so_ grateful to whatever loving God designed Eddie Kaspbrak for that little bit of extra padding around his hips and thighs. 

It’s delectable enough when Richie _isn’t_ fucking it, and now he’s on goddamn cloud nine. “Holy fucking shit,” he says, mostly to himself, as Eddie squeezes his thighs tightly together around the intrusion. 

He fucks into that soft space like his life depends on it. Maybe it’s a little too aggressive, but Eddie doesn’t complain or ask him to slow down or anything -- and he _would,_ if that was what he wanted. He’d _demand_ it. 

But he just pushes back against Richie’s hips, chanting his name breathlessly. Richie winds his arms around his abdomen to keep him steady, burying his face against his throat to suck hickies there so he doesn’t run his mouth off and say something stupid. 

Because there are a _lot_ of stupid things he wants to say, and too many potential repercussions.

Eddie twists one hand into his hair and brings the other down to… _God._ A high moan tears itself out of Richie’s chest when lithe fingers squeeze the head of his cock where it peeks out between his legs each time he thrusts in. 

“Fuck, Richie, that feels so good--” Eddie’s voice tapers off into a whine when Richie’s teeth scrape over a sensitive spot on his throat. It still makes elation explode inside Richie’s gut to know this isn’t just bringing _him_ pleasure. It’s hard to tell, in the porn flicks he’s seen, if the things they do are actually any good for everyone involved, because he knows from hushed conversations in hidden spots around Derry High that a lot of it is just people faking it.

But if people like the feeling of getting fucked in the ass, or… or _anything else_ they do, then surely this friction between his legs and against his spent cock must be doing _something_ for him. 

And-- And the thing is, Richie only realized this was even an option because of porn, and he’s also got a whole slew of other raunchy ideas and turn-ons kicking around in his cluttered head because of porn, and so when Eddie gasps his name again one of them springs to the forefront and leaves his mouth before his brain (and his impulse control) can catch up. 

“Call me Daddy,” he says between searing kisses pressed to the tense column of Eddie’s throat. He realizes immediately that he _shouldn’t_ have said that, because it’s too much and it’s _weird_ and it’s not everyone’s cup of tea, and especially because he’s supposed to be trying _not_ to scare Eddie away. Introducing all the weird little kinks he’s picked up from his early teenage experiences with smut vids is _not_ the way to go about that. 

It’d be better to keep things simple and clean until they inevitably part ways, having mastered the basics and ready to move on to bigger and better things. Richie’s bright idea to play around with a fucking daddy kink, of all things, is _not_ the basics, and if his dick wasn’t using up all his blood right now, he’d probably kick himself in the ass for not even _considering_ the fact that Eddie’s own dad is long fucking dead and that’s probably insensitive at _best._

But because Eddie is somehow the most perfect person on this shitty planet, he doesn’t even _question_ it; just tips his head back against Richie’s shoulder, thighs spasming around Richie’s cock, chest jumping with each breath, and moans a pitiful little, “ _Daddy,_ it’s so good.”

And, well, Richie is pretty easy to please, because the mounting pressure in his pelvis releases all at once as he muffles a sharp cry into Eddie’s hair, hips snapping forward harshly. He comes all over Eddie’s fingers and thighs, every nerve in his body lit up for a few consecutive seconds as he rides it out. He’s gripping Eddie’s waist hard enough to bruise, he realizes far too late, relinquishing his hold before he can cause any internal damage from the force of it. “Jesus… _Christ,”_ he breathes wetly against the side of Eddie’s head as he blinks the stars out of his vision. 

“We should do that all the time,” comes Eddie’s awed voice from beneath him, and some of the anxiety that had rooted itself in his chest relents. “I’m, uh…" He swallows audibly. "I think I’m hard again.”

Richie cranes his neck, which feels like it’s made of fucking jello in the wake of such an intense orgasm, to look. Even without his glasses, the half-chub he’s sporting is pretty obvious. He huffs a soft laugh. “You _think?”_

“I--!” Eddie starts indignantly, the part of his face that Richie can see from this angle flushing red. “I _told you_ it felt good! I wasn’t fucking lying!”

Richie grins broadly and kisses him behind his red ear. “Want me to take care of that for you?”

“...Please?” Eddie says, quieter than before, so Richie reaches between them to slip his bare fingers back inside, where he’s still wet and open, as he wraps a fist around Eddie’s stiffening cock to jerk him off.

* * *


End file.
